by Shae Ford
“The King doesn’t let just anybody handle these sorts of things. There’re too many dolts lumbering around the barracks. Most have got skulls thicker than their arms, if you want my opinion.”
D’Mere didn’t.
“When do we get to eat, anyhow?” The captain lifted the plate in front of him, as if he expected to find some morsel tucked beneath it.
“After the session opens, I believe,” D’Mere said.
His eyes traveled down the curve of her back, glinting. “I can think of something else we can do after the session opens.”
It was so easy, almost as natural as breathing in. D’Mere turned and arched her chin high. She slid her gaze from the dragon on his chest and along the matted strands of his beard — settling at last upon the greedy light that flooded his eyes. “So can I, Captain. In fact, I mean to give you a night you’ll never forget.”
His eyes moved more boldly. “I can’t wait to see if the legends are true.”
They were. They were truer than that oaf and his ratty beard would ever know. D’Mere forced herself to keep smiling, to deflect the captain’s many offers while keeping the hunger burning in his eyes.
It was a light that reduced all men to stumbling fools: their greed made it easy to disarm them. She could shatter them with a smile, a touch. For all their great strength, they melted far too quickly beneath her powers.
Perhaps that was why she’d always found men to be such … disappointing creatures.
D’Mere kept her ears tuned to the music as she weathered the captain’s prattling. When the song ended, she glanced back and saw that Aerilyn was helping the lurch into his coat. She draped it over his shoulders and smoothed the wrinkles out of his back. They talked for a moment, their heads close.
Aerilyn had painted her lips. How many times had D’Mere told her not to? Paint might’ve hidden flaws in other women, but against Aerilyn’s skin the bright red was a blemish, a nuisance — a smear on an otherwise perfect picture.
“Councilmen, I thank you all for joining this session,” Chaucer bellowed. He stood behind the head table, one hand resting on the enormous silver chalice next to his plate. “In a few moments, dinner will be served and the doors will be sealed. Once we’ve eaten, we’ll get straight to the v —”
“Ah, just a moment, chancellor. I’m afraid I have a question.”
A man two tables behind D’Mere got to his feet. He was a small man with far too large a nose and a shining spot at the top of his head.
“Councilman Alders, a representative of Harborville,” he said, with a slight bow to the tables around him. “As many of you know, my ships do a great amount of trade with the people of the Valley. We’ve spent years dealing in weapons and armor forged of mountain steel — first for the Duke, and now as loyal members of the free people’s council of the High Seas.”
D’Mere couldn’t stop herself from smiling. Chaucer’s face was about to get a great deal redder.
“I’m afraid I’ve heard a rather unsettling rumor,” Alders went on. “I was hoping you might be able to lay it to rest.”
“I’ll see what I can do, councilman. But you know how quickly rumors become monsters, in the High Seas,” Chaucer said lightly.
Alders chuckled along with the others for a moment, an unconcerned smile on his face. Then: “Is it true that you’ve been privy to a list of treaty conditions drafted by the King, and one of those conditions is that we wear Midlan’s armor during our acquisition of the mountains?”
The laughter went out like a candle’s flame.
“What’s this about conditions?” the woman on D’Mere’s left said. “I’ve received no such list.”
“Nor have I,” a man piped in.
“We haven’t even agreed to join Midlan, yet. Why are there already conditions?”
The woman bolted to her feet. “Surely you haven’t agreed to a treaty without the council’s consent. That would be a serious breach of office, sir!”
Chaucer held up his hands before the murmuring in the ballroom could grow too fierce. “Ladies and gentlemen, please. If you’ll all take your seats, I’m certain we can sort this —”
“I have the conditions list right here,” Alders declared. He whipped a folded square of parchment from his pocket — sparking a round of gasps from the others. “It came to me from a very reliable source and I must say, it certainly looks official. Shall I read it aloud, chancellor?”
To his credit, Chaucer did a remarkable job of keeping his face calm. “Please do, councilman. I’m very eager to hear it for myself.”
While Alders rattled off the list, Chaucer’s hand went to his coat pocket. He clenched the fabric so tightly that his fingers looked almost skeletal in the white.
D’Mere had seen him put the list inside that pocket. How it had wound up in the hands of Alders was a complete mystery. She turned ever so slightly and had to prop a hand over her lips to hide her smile.
Aerilyn.
Her face was innocent, but her chin jutted out defiantly. It reminded D’Mere of a little girl she used to know: a girl who would swear up and down to Garron that she was only going for a walk — and return hours later with her hems covered in mud. She’d stand wide-eyed under his interrogation, melting him with the innocence in her gaze … but the point of her chin always told clearly of her mischief.
The ballroom grew steadily noisier as the list went on. The councilmen were concerned that their various trades would be overlooked in favor of those from Midlan.
“These conditions will cost us gold that we could be putting back in our own coffers.”
“Yes, keep our coin in the seas!”
“I vote to put this matter on hold,” Alders declared. “Before we vote on an alliance, the council shall draft a new list of conditions — one that benefits us all. The seas are happy to join His Majesty’s cause,” he raised the parchment high, “but as his allies, and as a free people. Our voices will be heard!”
The thunderous applause that followed his words drowned out anything Chaucer might’ve said. He kept his hands raised until the room fell silent. “I agree with councilman Alders. Under the circumstances, I move that we put the signing of a treaty on hold until we’ve added our own conditions to the list,” he said with a forced smile. Then he waved to the envoy of Midlan. “Our concerns must seem strange to those outside our region. I’m sure the King meant no offense.”
The captain, who’d been staring with his mouth open for quite some time, sprang to his feet. “Uh, none, chancellor.”
“There you have it. Now to open this session, Countess D’Mere of the Grandforest has offered us a case of spirits from her region.”
She stood at Chaucer’s gesture and turned to smile at the rows of tables behind her. “A liquor from my personal cellar — it should pair well with sea fare and spirited debate.” She bowed slightly at their chuckles. “My thanks to you for allowing me to join this session.”
They applauded as she sat.
Chaucer gave the order and dinner was brought in — along with the bottles of D’Mere’s liquor. She watched as the servants poured the amber spirits into the waiting mouths of goblets. Everything was going well. There was just one final matter that needed settling.
She excused herself from the table and made her way to the back of the room. Aerilyn and the lurch were still standing by the piano. They tucked their smiles away as she approached.
“I suppose you think you’re clever, don’t you?” D’Mere said.
Aerilyn pulled out of her curtsy. “What ever do you —?”
“Spare me, girl. You know I’m not easily fooled.” She waved a hand. “And I know that thing isn’t your husband.”
Her face flushed pink.
The lurch glared at her. “If you’re going to kill us, then go on and be done with it. Otherwise, get out of our way.”
“Thelred!” Aerilyn hissed.
“No, I’m tired of all this chattering and sneaking about. I’m not afraid of her.” H
e reached out and snatched a goblet off a servant’s tray without looking. “To your health, Countess.”
The goblet was an inch from Thelred’s lips when D’Mere slapped it out of his hand. “You might’ve won this battle, pirate, but you can’t save the seas.” Then she turned her glare on Aerilyn. “Out of respect for your father, I won’t kill you tonight. But if I see your face again — either of your faces — I will carve them from your skulls.” Though the revelry around them was loud enough to drown out a battle horn, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “Now you will return to your ship and you will sail home immediately.”
Aerilyn tilted her chin. “I’m afraid we can’t do that, Countess. We still have the vote.”
D’Mere had to fight hard not to smile. She looked so much like Garron when she was angry. “No, my dear — there’ll be no vote for you tonight. My guard will see to that.”
Left appeared out of the shadows and placed a hand on Thelred’s shoulder.
“He’ll be standing at the docks all night, so don’t even think about turning around.” She grabbed Aerilyn by the arm — not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to prove that she could bruise her if she wanted to. “You’re a sweet girl, Aerilyn … and I know you’ll do what’s best for your men.”
Her chin trembled as it slid down. “Yes, Countess,” she said through her teeth.
Slowly, Thelred turned and limped towards the passageway — Left following close behind. Aerilyn tried to spin away, but D’Mere held onto her arm.
“Please, Countess. I —”
“Are you happy?”
Her bright blue eyes widened at the question. “Of course I’m happy, Countess. I still miss Papa. But everything else is —”
“Good.” D’Mere pressed the sleeve of her dress against Aerilyn’s lips, wiping the red away. “What have I told you about face paint, girl?”
“It’s a mask for lesser women,” she said sullenly.
“Precisely. And don’t forget it.” When she was done, D’Mere waved her away. “Now go. Leave before I change my mind.”
Aerilyn curtsied slightly, one hand placed on the lump beneath her dress. Then she swept down the hall.
D’Mere watched long after she’d gone, staring at the shadows cast against the torch-lined walls. Somehow, they seemed darker than they had before. It was only when Chaucer gave the order to seal the ballroom and begin the session that D’Mere returned to her table.
She stared at the amber liquid in her goblet while the councilmen raised theirs in a toast. They agreed the liquor was very fine, indeed. Several of them took second and third gulps. D’Mere nodded absently at their applause, forcing herself to smile.
Dinner began, and soon the noise in the ballroom faded. There was the occasional thump as a councilman’s head struck the table, the occasional clattering of knives upon the floor. When all was finally silent, D’Mere looked up.
The problem with the men of the seas was that they relied far too heavily on their politics. They were so afraid of having their fingers nicked that they’d grown reluctant to fight. They preferred to argue rather than use their swords. But D’Mere had always done things a little … differently.
She stood slowly and turned, gazing around the hall. The council laid lifelessly all around her: hanging against their tables, sprawled upon the floor, or slumped in their chairs. Oh, they weren’t dead — she’d seen no reason to kill them, not when their fear of Crevan would make the council such willing allies.
No, they were merely paralyzed.
It was one of the first poisons she’d ever learned: a simple compound of numbing herbs made more potent by the headiness of spirits. The council was alive and awake. Many of them followed her with their eyes as she stepped out from behind the table. They could see her, they could hear her … but they could do nothing to stop her.
D’Mere turned at the march of footsteps and saw Right walking down the stairs. He’d hidden in the second level before the start of the meeting. Chaucer should’ve never held a secret council in such an open room. That was his second mistake — his first had been in trusting D’Mere.
“Bag the heads,” she murmured as she strode down the line of tables.
Right drew his sword and advanced on the envoy from Midlan. The soldiers’ eyes rolled in panic when his blade bit their necks. Their mouths hung slack, filling the petrified air with silent screams.
D’Mere watched for a moment as Right lifted the captain by his matted beard and stuffed him into the sack. She’d given him exactly what she’d promised: a night he would never forget.
Tears streamed unchecked down many of the councilmen’s faces. She could practically hear them begging through their eyes as she swept towards the head table.
“I’m not going to harm you, councilmen,” she assured them. “The King meant to lead your armies into a trap, to buy a victory against Titus with the blood of our people. Yes, councilmen — our people. I’ve not forgotten the loyalty I owe the region of my birth. So I came here tonight to prevent this council from making a very serious mistake.” She smiled at them. “But politics work far too slowly … I hope you won’t mind it if I speed things along.”
When she reached the head table, she drew a leaf of parchment from the folds of her skirt. “Why would you kneel to a madman would you could easily stand on your own? The Grandforest will not to bow to Crevan’s commands.”
D’Mere took one of the candles from the table and tilted it, dribbling a good amount of wax in the corner of the parchment. Then she slipped the chancellor’s crested ring off Chaucer’s finger and pressed it firmly into the wax, forming a seal.
When she was finished, she held the parchment up. “I carry with me a declaration of war — a declaration signed by your chancellor. You will repay my kindness by joining in our fight, when the time comes. I assure you Crevan will be much less willing to treat with you once his envoy is delivered back to Midlan.” She placed the ring onto the table and cast a smile around the room. “I’ll leave you to your council, ladies and gentlemen. You have much to discuss.”
Footsteps on the balcony told her that Left had returned.
“Have they gone?”
He nodded.
“Good.” Her gaze returned to Chaucer. “Bring the chancellor along. There’s one last thing I’d like to do.”
They left the council frozen upon their seats and climbed two stories to the ramparts — Left with the limp form of Chaucer slung over his shoulders, and Right with his bag of heads. All of the guards were gone from this section of the wall … her twins had made certain they wouldn’t be disturbed.
Left bound the chancellor’s hands together. He grabbed one of the wall’s teeth and pulled, ripping it free of the mortar. D’Mere watched as he tied the stone to Chaucer’s feet. He hefted his limp body to the edge of the wall and held it out over the crashing waves —
“Wait.”
Left set him down and stepped away quickly.
D’Mere wound her fingers through Chaucer’s hair. She lifted his head from where it slumped against his chest and knelt so that their eyes were even.
They were desperate with panic. His eyes were the eyes of a man who would’ve offered her anything. She could have any portion of his wealth, every inch of his castle. She could’ve chopped off any part of his body — just so long as she let him live.
But D’Mere hadn’t come to the seas to bargain.
His eyes widened and his lips peeled back in a silent scream as he felt the bite of her dagger. She twisted it, scraping the blade against his ribs. Then she pulled it out … slowly. “I never planned to kill you. In fact, you could’ve been rather useful. But I’m afraid you made one too many mistakes.”
The dagger bit his flesh again. She watched the veins bulge out along Chaucer’s neck as he fought the pain. She pulled the dagger free and balanced the blade against the ridges of his throat, feeling for the perfect angle. She wanted him to be alive when he struck the waves.
She
wanted him to suffer.
“You didn’t have to die tonight, Chaucer.” She brought her lips to his ear and whispered: “But you also didn’t have to call my daughter a whore.”
Chapter 29
Strategy
Kael wasn’t sure how it’d happened. One moment he’d been wandering through the Kingdom, quite certain that some things were impossible — and the next, nothing seemed to be.
Knocking over trees and killing bears with rocks no longer seemed strange. Things that used to be necessary — like wearing a coat or a tunic — suddenly just got in the way. He’d hardly blinked the last time he saw a child carrying a boulder down the road. Having to fight his way through dinner had become so much a part of his routine that he felt uncomfortable when he wasn’t attacked.
And had he stopped running through the wilds long enough to look, he probably would’ve been shocked by his reflection.
He was certain the mountains hadn’t changed. The deer were just as swift, the slopes as unforgiving. The rocks weren’t any softer. The nights certainly weren’t any warmer. And yet, here he was — bounding across the most perilous corner of the Kingdom as if he had every right to it.
Perhaps the mountains hadn’t changed …
But Kael had.
What would Amos say if he could see him now? Would he smile when he saw the hospital had been rebuilt? If he could show Roland how well he hunted, it would erase his disappointment forever. His mouth would never sag, and his shoulders would never slump again.
Now that Kyleigh and the craftsmen had finished their work, that dream was finally, at long last, within his grasp. The wildmen had everything they needed to face Titus and win. There was just one final obstacle in his way, one impenetrable wall of flaming red stubbornness:
Gwen.
“I’ve already told you, mutt — when the time comes, we’ll stomp him.”
“And when will that be, exactly?” Kael said through his teeth.
He’d been trying to get her to rally the wildmen for weeks, now. He’d done everything she’d asked of him: the warriors had furs to keep in the warmth, oilskins to keep out the damp, and enough dried provisions to survive the wastes at the mountain’s top. But no matter what he did, it never seemed to be enough.
