by Carol A Park
Raw, naked shock.
Her face had paled. She held a half-sheet of paper in her hand, and it was trembling.
The smile slipped off his face. “Ivana?”
She didn’t respond. She just stood up and stared at the slip of paper.
He moved to look over her shoulder.
It was an unlimited promissory note from the Fereharian regional bank written for 50,000 setans. At the bottom corner, on a memo line that wasn’t part of the bank note itself, was written: Dowry for Ivana and Izel. The second name was in a different ink, as though added later.
Vaughn whistled. “He never spent it? It’s all just sitting in the bank? And it was even meant for you, no less. Damn! You’re rich!” Not that she needed it. She had money squirreled away all over the place from her years in a rather lucrative profession.
Even so.
But she didn’t look excited or even mildly pleased. In fact, the shock on her face wasn’t that of a pleasant surprise. It was that of learning that someone dear to you had suddenly died.
She looked like she was going to vomit and keel over all at the same time.
“Ivana?” he asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.
She stirred, shaking his hand off her shoulder violently, and took a step backward, the note still in her hand.
Then she turned and fled the room.
It had to be gone. It had to be. There was no way he had left 50,000 setans sitting in the bank…how would her mother have not known about it? The note was old, after all, dated right after that fifth payment. Maybe the bank had neglected to take it when he had retrieved the money.
She had to know for sure.
She marched directly into what passed for the local bank—little more than a desk with a chair at the other side, a filing cabinet, and a small vault. An older gentleman was sitting behind the desk, pen to a piece of paper, his head nodding to his chest.
She slapped the bank note down in front of him.
He jerked upright. “Wha—What? Who—oh.” He cleared his throat. “Yes. What can I do for you?”
“Is this still good?”
He plucked a pair of spectacles off the desk, settled them on his face, and then squinted down at the note. “Hmm… Let’s see… Hmm.” He held it up to the light, turned it around, and then set it back down and slipped off his glasses. “It appears to be genuine, and there’s no expiration date or assignment. So, yes, it’s still good. Now, if you’re looking to withdraw some of it, I can only do about a fifth here. The rest, I can write you a new note and you’ll have to take it to Cohoxta to the regional bank. We don’t keep that much on hand here. We’re mainly for small business transactions, you see.”
Ivana’s head was spinning. It was all there. All 50,000 damn setans of it. Nestled away in the bank the whole time. And her mother—obviously—hadn’t known about it, or she would have used it to better their lot.
The banker was still talking—rambling on about other options, such as paying a large transaction fee to have the setans brought in, but she stopped listening.
If her mother—if Ivana and her sister—had known about this—
She may or may not have been able to save her father. He had known about the money and had still demanded support from Gildas for the unborn bastard child Gildas’ eldest son had sired on Ivana. It was her father’s principles that had killed him.
But everything else, from then on?
Ivana, her mother, and her sister could have moved away from the scandal, somewhere nicer, and found jobs. Her mother would have never become sick and died. Her sister would never have been sold into slavery.
She would have never run away.
And Sweetblade would have never existed.
Chapter Fifteen
Yaotel’s Plans
Ivana walked the streets of Eleuria for three hours before she felt calm enough to return to the room. Even then, she didn’t want to talk to Vaughn, but she had little choice, and the sun was setting.
Vaughn was sitting at the desk with a sheet of paper in front of him. Her mother’s journal was above the paper to the left, and her mother’s key above the paper to the right. He started guiltily when she came in, as though he had been caught doing something naughty.
“I, ah, thought I might give it a go,” he said. “Sadly, I’m afraid my Xambrian just isn’t good enough.”
She yanked off her boots without acknowledging him and hurled them into the corner.
He blinked. “Are we not eating dinner?”
She extinguished her lamp and curled up on her bed, her back to him, hoping he would take the hint.
There was silence for a few minutes, and then he spoke again. “Where were you? I’ve never seen anyone so distressed by finding a ton of money.”
She curled up tighter and stared at the wall. She wished she had never found that money. It could have changed everything, and that knowledge was almost too much to bear.
“Whatever the issue is, it isn’t my fault, so do you think—”
Her stomach roiled. “Not your fault?” she said to the wall, keeping her tone even. “Whose fault is it that I went on this damn trip to begin with?”
“All right—you have a point—but I don’t understand—”
“Obviously,” she snapped.
“Look. I know you find me a convenient target for your anger, but I have no hope of understanding what happened if you don’t just lay it out for me. Did I do something, or is this just general rage at life again?”
What she would give right now to just be able to threaten him into leaving her alone. It was so much easier. And right now, it was an extraordinarily tempting option. If she had her dagger at hand, she might have given in.
Instead, she closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, hoping he would just go away.
No such luck. The mattress compressed underneath her. He was sitting next to her. “Ivana. We have weeks ahead of us. Maybe just this once, you might trust me a little?”
She swallowed. In lieu of threatening him with a dagger, perhaps a tall glass of ale might at least take her mind off it.
“Who knows? I might even be able to help.”
She sat up and looked at him. “You want to help? Go hunt down a pint or two for me.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “No.”
“I’m sorry?”
“That is not the way to deal with—”
Something inside her broke. She grabbed his collar and drew him close. “I don’t need you lecturing me on the best way to ‘deal’ with things,” she hissed.
Nonplussed, he untangled her hand from his collar and set it back down in her lap. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You have your vices; let me have mine.”
Something flickered in his eyes. His jaw tightened and relaxed several times. Then he stood up and pulled his boots on. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll find you your pint. But in regards to my ‘vice,’ would you like to know how many women I’ve slept with since we parted ways?”
“I have absolutely no desire to hear your count.”
“One.” He glared at her, threw open the door, and slammed it behind him.
Ivana had risen from bed and was sitting at the desk, by all appearances taking over where Vaughn had faltered.
As promised, he came back to the room carrying not one, but two pints of ale. He also brought back dinner, because he, at least, was hungry.
He set the two trays—one carrying the pints, and the other with the platter of food, on a round table in the corner of the room.
He set both pints down in front of her, and then sat down in the single chair at the table and began eating, saying nothing to Ivana.
He was tired of her taking out every little thing on him. He had done nothing to her—he had even tried to keep his tongue in check for her benefit, refusing the temptation to proposition her, whether in jest or in truth, because she hated it—even though in reality he wanted her as much as he ever did.
The
mere thought of it made him ache.
And after all this time, still she refused to trust him.
The silence dragged on. She didn’t touch the ale. It was anyone’s guess as to who would break the ceasefire first.
He sighed. Probably him. “There’s enough dinner for two,” he said at last.
She held the pencil for a moment, staring at the wall, and then set it down. She dragged the chair over to the table, served herself some, and began eating.
Eating was a strong word. She was picking at it, taking a nibble here and there. Finally, after a few minutes of that, she retrieved one of the pints and took a healthy draw.
She did it while looking at him, as if daring him to say something.
He didn’t.
“So,” she said, “when you say you’ve only slept with one woman…”
Oh, so they were going to talk about this?
“Were you in a relationship?” she finished.
He snorted. Right. That hadn’t changed. “No. I was in a bad place right after the Conclave coup.”
“I’m amazed you were self-reflective enough to recognize that.”
He set down his fork and wiped his mouth. “When I said you gave me a lot to think about, I wasn’t lying.” He met her eyes. “I’ve always thought of myself as a decent person, Ivana. Until, in the height of irony, you went and screwed with my head.” He wiggled his fingers above his head for emphasis.
She didn’t look away. She just studied him.
“And it didn’t help that every damn time I was tempted to give in, all I could hear was your voice in my head scolding me.”
A corner of her mouth quirked up briefly. “I see.”
She set her own fork down, though she wasn’t anywhere near finished, and looked down at her plate. “That money,” she said in a quiet voice, “would have ensured that my mother, sister, and I could have had a comfortable living after my father died. But apparently, my mother didn’t know about it.”
Oh. Oh.
And if that had been the case…she would never have become Sweetblade.
He understood now, inasmuch as he could, what that money represented to her.
She took her ale and downed it in several long chugs.
He didn’t stop her.
“There,” he said. “Was that so bad?”
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“You know, telling me what was bothering you rather than, I don’t know, fantasizing about slitting my throat?”
She blinked. “I wasn’t fantasizing about slitting your throat.”
“Oh.” He grinned at her. “That’s a relief.”
“Maybe just drawing a little blood.”
His smile faded. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
She shrugged. “Some habits are hard to break.”
Dear gods.
There was a long silence while they both finished what was left on their plates, and then she spoke again. “Why is this translation so important to you?”
“What? I told you. Because if we can open a doorway and talk to the gods, maybe they’ll—”
She pushed her plate back and waved her hand. “Right, but no. You’re obsessed with this, Vaughn. You just told me you yourself didn’t think this was going to pan out. And yet…” She raised an eyebrow. “Here we are. What’s Yaotel’s alternative plan that you are so desperate to avoid?”
He picked up his fork again and poked at a bit of fat he had pushed to the side, his stomach souring slightly. He’d have to tell her eventually; now was as good a time as any. “If the conditions are right for an easy takeover, as he believes they are, Yaotel wants to oust Airell, put someone sympathetic to us in his place, and, in conjunction with other plans he has, have a chance at resisting the Conclave.”
Ivana narrowed her eyes. “He wants you as that replacement.”
She didn’t miss much. “Yes.” Yaotel thought his family connection with Airell—and Gildas before him—would give him legitimacy. Even though the title of Ri wasn’t supposed to be hereditary, it was a common practice in Ferehar.
She appeared to consider that. “And…you don’t want this?”
He gave a short laugh. “Of course I don’t. It is literally the last thing I would ever choose to pursue.” He had hated that life, hated the games, hated being on display. Yaotel might as well slap him in irons and lock him up—forcing him to play that role, to be someone else he didn’t want to be.
He set his fork down and gave her a bright smile. “So. If I can get Zily to help, none of that will be necessary.”
She studied him for a moment longer, and then shook her head. “I’m going to turn in.”
“You going to drink the other ale?” he asked.
She glanced at it, then hesitated. “No. I don’t think so.”
Chapter Sixteen
Lost
The nightmare was particularly bad that night. Ivana’s mother, before stalking her down and accusing her of being a monster, started scattering setans at her feet like birdseed. She slipped, and her mother kept piling the coins on top of her until she was buried in them and couldn’t breathe.
She couldn’t go back to sleep afterward, instead drifting in and out of the same dream repeatedly. When she “woke” in the morning, she felt groggy from lack of sleep. Not a good way to begin a day she’d intended to spend translating Xambrian.
At least translating would keep her mind off the money.
Vaughn was far too cheery for her mood, but he brought breakfast to her and then thankfully left, saying he ought to do what he was supposed to be doing and gather information—as well as restock their supplies.
That left her with a sheet of Xambrian, a few clean pieces of paper, and a pencil.
Truthfully, she couldn’t think of a better way to spend a day. She hoped to finish by dinner so they could pack up and head down the road the next day.
Her Xambrian was rusty, but it came back to her quickly enough. Morning bled into midday, and since Vaughn didn’t reappear to bring her lunch, she kept working in blessed solitude.
By the time he returned to the room, the sun was low in the sky, she had just finished translating the last sentence, and she realized with a start that she was starving.
Vaughn dropped a bag in the corner. “Any progress?”
She held up the sheet of paper and read aloud: “‘And at the time of year when it was appointed that Xiuheuhtli should set loose his serpent upon the sky, to consume its impurities in flame, also would the veil between mortal and divine be at its weakest, and it could be forced to tear, in order to welcome those who should seek the favor of their patrons, even those gifted of divine blood. Thus did the first of our kind, Amatl, gird up his loins to step into the serpent’s mouth at the appointed time and by sacrifice of blood be consumed by the flames.’”
Vaughn held up his hand. “Wait. ‘Sacrifice of blood’? ‘Consumed by flames’? Uh…suddenly, I’m not liking the sound of trying out this doorway.”
She flicked her hand at him in annoyance. “Quiet, I’m not done.” She continued reading. “‘Being so purified by blood and fire, Amatl traveled long in the gods’ realm—his journeys, are they not recorded in The Book of Fire?—and returned to us unharmed and blessed by the gods beyond all mortal measure. They called him teotontl, and—’”
“‘Teotontl’? What’s that?”
Ivana sighed. “I don’t know. A name or title, maybe? It’s not a Xambrian word I know and doesn’t sound Xambrian, either, even though it’s in the Xambrian script. Now would you let me finish?”
Vaughn waved his hand.
“‘They called him teotontl, and he became our first mortal king. And Amatl looked upon the rest of his kind with favor, saying…’” She put the paper down.
“‘Saying’? Saying what?”
Ivana set the paper down. “That’s it. That’s what the Xambrian says, anyway.”
Vaughn walked over to the desk and stared down at the paper, as if he could get it
to reveal its secret by looking hard enough. “That’s an odd place to leave off. Was the tablet broken off there?”
“Not that my mother indicated, nor does it look that way in her sketch, but then again, we’re still missing the latter half of the journal.”
Vaughn scratched at his beard. “Huh.”
Ivana tapped the paper. “I have a theory. I’m no archaeologist, but I’m wondering if originally this was set up near the serpent as a way of reminding people of what it signified. It’s possible what’s written around the serpent’s mouth is what he said, hence the connection.”
“All right. So do you know what the writing around the mouth says yet?”
“I haven’t gotten that far. That’ll take me a bit longer to work out, as I told you before.” She paused. “Is our plan still to leave first thing tomorrow morning and finish this in Marakyn?”
“Yes. I think it’s best we keep moving. Especially after the news I heard today.”
She raised her eyebrow. “Oh? And what would that be?”
He pulled a sheet of paper out of the bag he’d brought in and slapped it down in front of her. “Well, first, there’s this.”
Ivana looked over it. It was a notice that there was a dangerous Banebringer thought to be in the area…and a reward was being offered for his capture. Attached was the standard description of Vaughn they’d already seen circulating—not updated to include the beard yet.
She snorted. “Dangerous?”
He folded his arms across his chest. “I’m very dangerous!” He gave her a halfway menacing look.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “What’s ironic is that you could be if you wanted to be.” His water magic was incredibly powerful, but she had never seen him utilize it to its full potential.
He snatched the paper out from under her and crumpled it into a ball. “I prefer not to reach for hurting people as my go-to solution for problems,” he said tartly. “I don’t see how that’s a bad thing.”
She grunted, choosing to ignore his implication. “You said ‘first.’ What else?”
