12
Winter arrived on Imaness with a vengeance. The chill wind sliced into Brommel’s skin like a razor. Dokur’s shores were beaten by relentless ocean waves so that the navy’s ships were forced to secure themselves to their docks. People stayed in their houses, taking cover against the onslaught of rain and sleet. Inland, the skies heaped snow upon the mountains weeks earlier than usual. The world on Imaness came to a sudden halt as everyone hunkered down for what promised to be a long, harsh season.
Brommel sat beside the fire at the Seafarer Inn with a mug of ale clasped in both hands. Mrs. Peagry had given it to him an hour earlier and he had yet to drink it. He gazed past the flames to the nothingness beyond, his mind miles away at the celestine mine.
He wondered how the slaves fared in weather like this. Were they forced to work in the freezing rain? Did they have warmer clothing than he had seen most of them wear? He imagined the place was a muddy wreck, that digging for gems would be futile in such conditions. He thought too of the rows of tents he had seen. Surely they weren’t adequate to protect the Agorans and humans from the storms. The thought of Arla enduring this relentless cold and dampness ate at him. She shouldn’t be there at all, he kept telling himself. If it weren’t for him, she would be home with her family.
But she had insisted on coming, he reminded himself. She made the choice.
But he, Brommel, had chosen to sell his soul to Lord Fredric. What would the eternal consequence be for a man like him who had broken up families and delivered men to the depths of their own personal hells? There was blood on his hands, he knew it. Not only those whom he had killed for the Vatéz, but Fredric’s slaves. The lashes on their backs. Their broken spirits. All lay on his conscience like a burden too heavy to carry.
The day ebbed to a close and the last of the Seafarer’s regular patrons filed out, reluctantly facing the storm to return to their own homes.
Brommel had tucked Rylan into bed hours earlier, and Mouse and the refugee children were all certainly asleep. The room, emptied of customers, felt foreign somehow. But Brommel appreciated the silence, the aloneness that allowed him to wrestle with his own mind.
After a time, footsteps creaked on the stairs. Brommel broke his gaze from the fire to see the Hestorian father, who he had learned was called Tyron, coming down to the kitchen. When Tyron noticed Brommel, he paused and changed directions, coming instead to the fire.
“This storm is a right monster, isn’t it?” he said.
Brommel nodded, and then took his first sip of ale of the night. The liquid burned his throat but then sent threads of warmth through him.
“I haven’t taken the time to thank you,” Tyron continued. “I’m not a man of many words, but you’ve been very kind to my family these past few weeks.”
The man stood hesitantly, as if waiting for Brommel to reply, but he wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Not tonight. Since his visit to the mine, he had taken it upon himself to make sure Tyron’s and the other families received needed provisions: clothes, food, weapons, and other items. He had spoken to Chancellor Prost and arranged for the King to issue an official welcome to the newcomers, which Brommel then used to encourage citizens of Dokur to donate money to help the refugees find permanent housing. It wasn’t easy, and the process was slow. New cottages were constructed at the edge of town. Farm owners and merchants were coaxed into hiring the men so that they could start supporting their own families. Tyron’s family was one of the few who remained in temporary lodging. His cottage hadn’t yet been finished.
For two months now, Brommel had avoided taking on any new contracts from Chancellor Prost. Though the Chancellor had called for him half a dozen times, Brommel always found some way to be unavailable. The thought of taking one more man to the mine was like a fire in the brain. He couldn’t do it. Instead, he offered lessons to the local children in weapons defense. Most of the youth here were inexperienced with swords or archery. Unlike the village children whose fathers taught them how to hunt when they were young, Dokur’s children had been raised in a city. Their fathers were merchants, fishermen, farmers.
Brommel’s first classes had barely half a dozen young boys, but by the end of the first month, he was teaching more than thirty boys and several girls as well. Their parents paid him well.
Tyron’s boys were in his class, though Brommel accepted no payment for their lessons even though Tyron had secured steady employment with the local baker.
“Well,” Tyron said, “I wanted you to know how much I appreciate all you’ve done for us.” He waited a moment more, and then turned for the kitchen.
Brommel watched him. He had not forgotten what Rylan had told him about his being a Guardian, but he still had not found the right opportunity to bring it up. Now, he realized, the right moment might never come.
“Have the Vatéz found the crystal?” Brommel asked, his voice quiet enough to be heard only by Tyron.
Tyron stopped walking, but he did not turn around. He seemed to be thinking. After a moment, he finally turned to face Brommel. His expression was calm and resigned.
“I won’t ask you how you found out,” said Tyron. “But no. The Vatéz have not found what they’re looking for, at least they hadn’t before I left Hestoria.”
Brommel considered this and felt relieved. Then he asked, “Do you know Jayson?”
“The half-breed,” said Tyron. “He was our protector until the Vatéz found us and attacked.”
“What happened to him?”
“Wounded. Teetering between life and death, last I heard.” Tyron sighed. “Most of our people died that day. We only survived because we ran, like Jayson told us to. We didn’t look back. But the Vatéz won’t give up until they’ve tracked us all down, until every last Guardian is dead. Or until Arik has the Seer’s crystal in his hand.”
“How do you know that the Vatéz are still searching for the crystal?”
Tyron shook his head. “Jayson didn’t have it,” he said. “I heard him tell the Vatéz commander so.”
“He might have been lying.”
“No. He was telling the truth. He must have hidden it.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. No one does.”
Brommel felt the cold mug in his hands and pressed his palms tight against it.
“What about Ivanore? Do you know anything about her?”
At the sound of Ivanore’s name, anger spread across Tyron’s face. His lips pressed into a tight line.
“What is it?” Brommel asked.
“If you’re looking for the Seer,” said Tyron at last, “you’ll find her in Hestoria among Arik’s inner court. But I doubt she wants to be found. Not by the Guardians. Not by you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Ivanore was at Ashlin the morning the Vatéz attacked. I saw her with my own eyes. She must have found us with that visionary power of hers, and she led them right to us.”
Brommel noticed that Tyron’s hands were now fists. “That can’t be true,” said Brommel, astonished at Tyron’s accusation. “Why would she destroy the very people who are sworn to protect her? And her husband?”
“I don’t know,” said Tyron, clenching his jaw. “I only know that Ivanore is a traitor to the Guilde.”
13
If only Erland hadn’t realized his dagger was missing just outside Ivanore’s door. If only he hadn’t pushed through the door and found her, still standing where he’d left her, blood oozing from her wound and puddling on the floor. If only he hadn’t torn off his own tunic and bound her wrist, then swept her into his arms, running from the room and shouting.
If only…
The dagger had slipped from her fingers, had clattered to the floor, forgotten.
Ivanore was never left alone after that. Two guards stood watch day and night, one inside and one outside her room. They never spoke to her. Even as they changed posts with new guards every four hours, not a word was spoken. They were like furniture, like th
e bureau or the desk, standing there with their eyes forward. They did not watch her while she dressed or undressed. They did not move as she ate, as servants came and went with her trays. All her once private, human activities were no longer private. At first, it was unnerving, but in time Ivanore grew accustomed to their presence and soon came to disregard them, as they seemed to disregard her.
Her wound healed, leaving a narrow rope of red flesh to remind her of her loneliness.
Arik had cursed Erland for his carelessness, had cursed her as well, but neither of them received any further punishment, and Ivanore had not seen Arik since that day.
Though she was guarded round the clock, she was no longer imprisoned. Once again she was allowed to leave her room as she pleased, to roam the halls of the castle, to stroll through the courtyard and gardens. The guards simply followed her.
The only place they would not go was the chapel, the long forgotten holy room Erland had once shown her. The guards would accompany her to the doorway and remain there as she entered. Whether they were superstitious of the dragon that adorned the archway or of the ghosts said to live there, Ivanore wasn’t sure. The room was certainly small enough that the guard at the door could watch her every movement, but even so, when she was in the chapel, she felt as if she was alone.
Today she lit the candles in the alcoves set into the wall and then moved to the window. The tall, narrow opening was just wide enough for a man to slip through should he desire. She stood so that the front of her thighs pressed against the bottom stone, and leaned out a little. She looked down to where the ocean waves pounded the stone crags at the base of the castle. If someone timed it right, she thought, one could leap from this window and dive into the water. He would have to push away from the window a few feet or else he might land on the stones instead, but this tower jutted out over the edge far enough to allow a clean drop into the waves.
How far down was it, she wondered? Would the impact be enough to break one’s neck? And if one did survive the fall, where would one go? Swimming those waves, at least in winter like now, was surely a death sentence in itself.
Ivanore gripped the wall, the brisk ocean wind whipping her hair across her face.
She hadn’t the courage. She would need to step up onto the ledge and the moment she did that, the guard would surely rush in to stop her. But if she really wanted to…
But the desire that had fueled her two months ago had now left her. In its place was an empty space. She ate. She slept. She walked. But she felt nothing.
Ivanore turned from the window.
“I wish to speak to Erland, your captain,” she said.
The guard at the entry nodded, and she followed him out.
They found Erland in the tapestry room reading a parchment in front of the fire place. He stood when Ivanore entered, surprise on his face.
“Lady Ivanore,” he said in greeting. Then he spoke to the guard. “You may wait outside.”
The guard obeyed and closed the door.
Ivanore did not wait for an invitation to sit down. She strode to a cushioned chair and eased herself into it. The heat from the fire warmed her. It was a welcome change to her own room which was always cold this time of year.
“What are you reading?” she asked.
Erland’s eyes, which had been glued to her, shifted to the parchment. “Nothing important,” he said, quickly rolling it up and tying a leather band around it. “Just your brother’s latest commands. He seems to issue new ones every day.” He laughed lightly, as if Arik was not the dangerous man he was. “Did you have a walk today?”
“Yes,” Ivanore replied. “But the weather has turned.”
“We are well into winter. It’s been snowing inland for weeks.”
Ivanore tried to read Erland’s expression. He was trying so hard to seem at ease. The smile on his face did not touch his eyes, and whenever she glanced at him, he looked away.
“I came to thank you,” she said finally, tired of small talk, “for helping me that day.”
“No need to thank me.” Her reference to her harming herself made him visibly uncomfortable. She hated to admit it, but seeing the Captain of the Guard squirm gave her some pleasure.
“But I do,” she continued. “I should have said this long ago, but I honestly haven’t felt like talking to anyone, let alone you.”
Erland’s eyes turned down to the floor. Ivanore ventured on.
“I owe you an apology, several really. Twice now I’ve taken advantage of your kindness toward me. I’ve had some time to think about my actions, and I can say that I’m ashamed. So, I’m sorry. I wanted you to know.”
She stood to leave, feeling a rush of emotion coming on, but as she turned for the door, Erland grasped her arm. She looked back and found him gazing at her with a desperate look in his eyes.
“If you had died,” he whispered, “I would have died too.”
So that was it then, she realized. Erland cared for her. He had said as much before, but apparently his feelings had only deepened over time. He did not hold a grudge against her. How could he? He loved her.
Ivanore gazed at him for a moment. How she pitied him. What pain it must cause a man to love a woman who could never love him back.
Erland swallowed as if summoning his courage. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but now that Jayson is—”
He swallowed again. “Now that he is gone, I thought perhaps you and I might—”
Ivanore could bear to hear no more. She wanted to yank her hand away and slap him, and she imagined herself doing just that, feeling the sting of his cheek against her palm, the satisfaction of seeing the red welt rise there. But she restrained herself and steeled her feelings. Instead, she forced a smile and cloaked her anger with a mask of compassion.
“I am flattered, truly,” she said, “and perhaps in the future I might consider marrying again, but it’s too soon, I’m afraid. The pain is too fresh.”
Erland released her arm and gave a gentle nod of understanding. She had given him enough hope to quell his appetite for now, to mend his trust in her. And that was what she wanted.
In time she would ask him what Arik’s orders revealed. And he would confide in her. She dare not ask now for fear that he would sense the deception in her motives. But soon enough, she would come to know what her brother was planning.
As she turned to leave, she could still feel Erland’s eyes watching her. The truth was, being in the same room with him made her feel ill. She had felt nauseated from the moment she woke that morning as her plans began forming in her mind.
Jayson wasn’t gone. She didn’t care what Erland or Arik believed. She didn’t trust either of them, and she didn’t trust her own visions in which Jayson was absent. Jayson was alive somewhere on Hestoria. And as soon as she had the opportunity, she would escape again and find him.
14
“Tell me again why you didn’t destroy that pathetic little village when you had the chance?”
Arik flicked a speck of dust off his sleeve, then sipped his wine. “I gave express instructions to punish anyone who aided Ivanore in her escape.”
It had been months since Erland and his soldiers had descended on Ashlin. Arik had been so furious about not finding the crystal, that he hadn’t even cared about the traitors along the way. At least until now.
“I took care of the man in Durvett,” said Erland.
“I took care of the man in Durvett,” Arik mocked. “One man? Only one man?”
“Durvett is a vital port. We rely on them for all our supplies. I can’t just march in and kill off the entire village. Auseret would not only be completely cut off from Nauvet-Carum, but we’d make enemies of the wrong people.”
Arik considered this as he drained his goblet and set it on the table. On that cue, a server placed a platter of roasted meat and braised carrots in front of him. Arik lifted his fork, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger.
“You make a good point about Durvett. But the oth
er village…”
“I believe it is called Ulna, Minister.”
“Ulna. Have they any import to us?”
“No, but—”
Arik placed a carrot in his mouth and chewed. “Then what was the problem?”
Erland cleared his throat. Though he sat at the table with Arik, no food or wine had been offered.
“Like Durvett,” Erland began, “only one person was responsible. No one else was even aware of Ivanore’s presence.”
“How can you be sure of that?”
“Her trail led to one person and one only.”
“But you didn’t kill him?”
“No, sir. I did not.”
Arik narrowed his eyes, and his voice grew an edge. “Why?”
Erland watched as the server refilled Arik’s goblet, the burgundy liquid swelling in the glass. How he longed for a drink himself.
“Because he was a boy,” he answered, the words sticking in his throat.
“What?” asked Arik, swallowing another carrot.
“I said, he was a boy, a child.”
Arik set down his fork. Then he tugged his napkin from around his neck and laid it on the table. “You defied my orders because the traitor was a child?”
Erland felt a sheen of fear slip underneath his skin as Arik rose from his chair, his unblinking gaze never breaking from Erland’s. The young Minister of Hestoria paced the length of the table, his hands clasped behind his back to where the server patiently waited.
The Crystal Keeper BoxSet Page 25
