Finding Destiny

by Jean Johnson

  “Sir Zeilas, do you have any idea what this means?” she asked, turning to him. “Perhaps ‘further’ means I should offer more treaties?”

  He rubbed his chin, which from its smoothness she suspected he had shaved just before their picnic lunch, then shrugged. “I haven’t much experience in dealing with prophecies, to be honest, but ... It seems to me they come in two types. Either they unfold their meaning when the events predicted happen, or they have meaning which pertains to the moment they are revealed to their intended target. This doesn’t seem to have any sort of specific date or goal in mind—not an actual month or day like, oh, Fevra 7th or Mars 14th. Prophecies are never that specific. But they do refer to an event, when they do refer to one. This one is more like a set of instructions. ‘Follow this, and such and such will happen.’”

  “So, you think it has more meaning for the context of the moment in which it was heard?” Marta asked.

  “Well, it did specify the ‘girl in gray’ who is your friend,” Gabria pointed out. “I’m not your only friend, and I’m not the only person wearing gray clothes in the palace compound. But I was the first person Stevan saw as he came out of the talker room, I am your friend, and I did know where to find you, the intended recipient of the message.”

  “Exactly. So, what we were doing was ... right and just?” Marta looked up at the Arbran Knight, confused.

  Zeilas smiled. Smirked, rather. “What we were doing certainly seemed right, though I don’t know how ‘just’ it was.” Catching a curious look from Gabria, he shook his head. “Just getting-to-know-you things, that’s all. Respectfully.”

  His gaze slipped back to her mouth. For a moment, Marta could once again feel the touch of his lips against hers. Clearing her throat, she focused on the paper in her hands. “Well, maybe it means respect and a cultural or social exchange of some sort. Which would make sense, if I would ‘seek it further than a day’ since with understanding often comes acceptance, or at least greater tolerance.” She eyed the next verse. “Which means you’ll be in charge of some sort of cultural exchange once you get to Aurul, Gabria.”

  “I look forward to it,” the other woman quipped wryly. “Seers are strange enough, I don’t see why someone as socially awkward as me should be entrusted with this task.”

  “You don’t seem the least bit shy to me, milady,” Zeilas offered politely.

  Gabria wrinkled her nose. “Not shy, awkward. I am a ... you know.”

  “Ah, yes. Married,” he quipped.

  Marta snorted. She quickly covered her nose and mouth to muffle her giggles, which were worsened by her friend’s confused look. Waiving it off, she mustered some composure and muttered, “It’s a private joke ... Well. We’ll load you with ideas for cultural exchanges, as well as lessons in Aurulan, so at least the Aurulans can understand you if you ask for the nearest refreshing room or what time supper will be served. As for the south ... the solution is the solution?”

  “It might be something you already know they need,” Zeilas said, rubbing his chin again.

  “Considering they’ve waited almost a full year after our Patron Deity Manifested to agree to sending us an envoy ... which they haven’t yet sent,” Marta returned, “we don’t know much of what they need. In fact, the only thing I know most Sundarans ‘need’ is water, and they get it for free from the River Ev ... oh. Right. The River Evada.” Lifting a hand to the bridge of her nose, Marta rubbed at the headache threatening to form. “Right. The tailings and runoffs from the south valley mines. Well. I have been after the Mining Guild to clean up after themselves.”

  “If the miners want peace with Sundara, like the rest of us, cleaning up the mining pollution in the river water would go a long way toward sweetening their feelings about us,” Gabria agreed.

  “I’d have to agree,” Zeilas chimed in. “In my time down in southern Sundara, I did notice the locals were rather keen on pure water. The cleaner, the better. They use it ritually to purify themselves, confessing their sins and cleansing their souls even as they scrub their skin. It may not have come up yet because they may not have noticed, or they may simply be waiting for their envoy to bring it up once the preliminary stuff is out of the way ... but they will notice. Anything you do preemptively to make the river water better will also be noticed, and appreciated.”

  “I’m not too up-to-date on my alchemical knowledge, but I do know they use certain extracts in the refining process for certain rare ores,” Marta muttered. “Some are acidic, some are alkaline, and many require one or the other opposing kind to neutralize their effects. That could be the ‘solution’ the Seer King had in mind for us. I’ll pressure the Mining Guild to cooperate with the Alchemy Guild on figuring out how to clean up the river.”

  “That leaves just one verse left. Two guesses as to what it means, and the first one’s already been used up,” Gabria quipped.

  Marta wrinkled her nose. “The north, and Warlord Durn the Dreaded. Well, even an idiot child could tell we’d have to fight him at some point. If ‘a firmly faced death’ means facing him in battle, then we’ll face him. But not without provocation. We’re creators now, not aggressors.”

  “Sir Catrine has promised to show the Mage’s Guild several varieties of long-distance scrying spells,” Gabria said. “Combine that with some extra scout patrols from the border precincts, and we should have plenty of advanced warning on when Durn starts massing his troops this coming spring.”

  Marta started to comment, then caught herself. She gave her friend a lopsided smile. “I was about to ask you to contact them, and see if the Mage’s Guild can offer some enchanting assistance as well, since a lot of our magical style was sublimated into alchemy over the years. But you’ll have to select a replacement from among your fellow sub-Consuls before you leave. Now is as good a time as any to go pick one out, so they’ll have time to learn and train.”

  Gabria returned the half smile, making it look more rueful than wry. “You’re right. I’d better get started on that. I’ll see you later. Sir Zeilas . . .”

  “Sub-Consul,” Zeilas returned, giving her a polite bow. She turned and left the parlor, closing the door in her wake.

  “We don’t have much time,” Marta murmured. Turning to face him, she found her next set of words cut off by the way he wrapped his arms around her body and caught her mouth in a soft, succulent kiss. He didn’t kiss her for long, and when he pulled back, it was with a slight smile.

  “Sorry, but I figured we didn’t have much time left in our scheduled picnic. You were saying?”

  “I was about to say, if this prophecy relates to our current circumstances ... then more of ‘it’ for her would be more of this,” she pointed out, slipping her arms around his ribs. Then she sighed and scrunched her nose in a grimace, though she didn’t let go of him. “From a political standpoint, it makes no sense. This isn’t politically wise.”

  “Agreed. If we court openly, they could question our judgment. If we court secretly and we’re discovered, they’ll question our motives for every decision made,” Zeilas agreed. “Besides, the prophecy implies that whatever we do here, the ‘girl in gray’ shall have something similar happen to her. That in turn would imply that she’s being called to Aurul to court or be courted. People don’t actually conduct politics that way. Not in this day and age, at any rate.”

  Standing in the circle of their interlaced arms, Marta gave in to impulse. She leaned into him, resting her cheek on his shoulder, and sighed. “I may have to go back to being Consul-in-Chief in a moment, but I’m not going to regret this moment. I’m a leader and a woman, and I’m very glad you’re enjoying the company of the woman.”

  “It’d be easier if you weren’t a leader,” he agreed, dusting the top of her braid-wrapped head with a kiss. Squeezing briefly, he released her and stepped back. “But you are, and I still respect you, as both a woman and a ruler. If nothing else, you are an elected ruler. I need only wait patiently for your term to be up.”

  “Except I
might get reelected,” she pointed out, chuckling. Mock-posing thoughtfully, finger on cheek, she added, “Unless I deliberately befouled my reputation with, say, flirting openly with an honored envoy ... oh, but to truly foul it up, you’d have to be offended, wouldn’t you?”

  He lifted her hands in his, bowing over them with a warm smile. “That, I think, would be very difficult for you to do.”

  His words warmed her from the inside out. She liked feeling feminine around him, for he was not only sincere, he didn’t diminish her in any way. “Then to a Netherhell with what anyone thinks. What we would do is not wrong. Not if we mind the difference between our positions and our persons.

  “You and I shall continue to get to know each other, and perhaps even to court one another,” she allowed, reasoning it out loud. “We shall do so discretely in the sense of separating it from our occupational concerns, and discreetly in the sense of not being overly blatant or disrespectful about it ... but we will still court. When we can schedule the time for it, since I do have to leave in a few moments to meet with the Consul of the Accountant’s Guild. Is this course of action agreeable with you?”

  Pressing a kiss to the backs of her knuckles, he murmured, “Eminently.”

  FOUR

  The flurry of knocks on the door of the Arbran ambassadorial suite startled the three Arbrans mid-meal. Sir Collum, junior-most of those present at breakfast, got up and hurried to answer the impatient thumping. No sooner had the messenger-Knight opened the door, however, than he stumbled back, giving ground before the furious, flushed appearance of the Consul-in-Chief.

  Waving a sheet of tablet paper, she stalked into their parlor without waiting for permission and shook the scrap in Zeilas’ face as he hastily rose to greet her. “Your king is impossible! Or at least, he’s demanding the impossible! Do you know what he’s expecting us to do?”

  Wiping the crumbs of his breakfast from his mouth, Zeilas swallowed not only his food but the urge to tell her she looked absolutely beautiful in her gown. The outer garment was black, like all of her clothes, and knitted from finespun wool in a complex, almost delicate pattern. A silvery gray linen undergown could be seen peeking through beneath the holes knitted into the pattern, the first sign of nonblack in any of her apparel so far. Instead, mindful that his duty came first, he asked, “Actually, no, I don’t, but if you’ll explain, I’d be happy to listen.”

  She flapped the tablet sheet in front of him again. He belatedly recognized it as the same size used by their “talker box operators” like that fellow Stevan. The talker boxes, he had learned, were a clever, complex, nonmagical solution to the scrying mirrors used for long-distance communications by most other countries. They were particularly useful for nonsensitive or time-sensitive communications; for those missives requiring discretion but which weren’t time sensitive, delivering the messages personally were what his fellow Knights like Sir Collum did best.

  “Your king,” Marta growled, “expects us to pay for everything! Regarding the road-building projects,” she clarified as he gave her a blank look. “I told you, we don’t have a lot of arable land to spare—and frankly, we’ll need every hand we do have to bring in the harvests this next year, because we’re having to push for bigger farms and fields, and yes, that means taking laborers from other guilds and cross-training them in the agricultural ones. If I have to take those men and women out of the fields to build roads connecting us with Arbra, then how the hell am I going to feed them?”

  Plucking the tablet sheet from her grasp, Zeilas read over the message, relayed by mirror and talker box all the way from High Hold. “His Majesty is refusing to pay you in coin for the roads. I don’t think it is unreasonable for him to ask your people to build those roads. First of all, it reassures him, if the roads are first built from the Guildaran side, that you have no fear of us invading you, because you’re making it easier for us to do so, if that were our intent. Which it isn’t.

  “Second ... even our own road-builders would have to admit that your roads are far better constructed than ours. It only makes sense to have the best builders do the job, so that they’ll last a good long time,” he added. “Third, we’ve already agreed that trade in food items can begin immediately. You can buy whatever you need.”

  “With what money? Our entire economy has been self-sufficient, until now. Poor, but self-sufficient,” Marta argued. “If we send you our coinage for your food—an enduring commodity for a consumable one—that means we’re weakening our economy. We don’t have that much in the way of gold and silver in our mines. Most of what we have is tin, copper, and iron. If your king wants us to build those roads—and thank you for the compliment; yes, we do build very good roads—then he will have to feed us for them! And house us. And clothe us, besides!”

  “Oh, now that’s asking too much,” Zeilas protested. Mindful of Sir Collum and Sir Eada, who hadn’t finished their breakfasts, he gestured at the table. “Would you care to sit and join us, Milady Chief? We have some fruit and some pastries left, and half a sausage.”

  “I’ve broken my fast, thank you, though some fruit juice would be nice,” Marta replied, settling into the chair he quickly held out for her. “I apologize for the intrusion, but this is a ridiculously expensive request. Peace and trade both require cooperation, and if he will not compromise at least somewhat favorably for us, then we will have no incentive to comply. Thank you,” she added as Sir Eada poured and passed to her a fresh goblet of apple juice.

  “Forgive me my ignorance,” Sir Collum offered somewhat hesitantly, “but surely this could have waited for later?”

  “Yes, and no,” Marta explained to the younger Knight. “Technically it could, but now that winter is on its way out, my schedule is filling up rapidly with all that we have to do once the weather improves. Sir Catrine—by the way, where is she?”

  “She broke her fast early and went out to exercise her Steed, along with the others,” Zeilas explained.

  Marta nodded. “Right. Yes, you’ve certainly given our motorhorse corps some fits of envy with your horsemanship skills. For all they’re nearly inexhaustible, our motorhorses are still merely machines, and must be constantly guided ... As I was saying, Sir Catrine has been teaching our mages how to read and predict the weather. They and she both predict that the weather will start improving this next week.

  “That means, if we’re to get a head start on breaking ground for the roads, we need to clear up the details of who will be responsible for what as soon as the conditions are perfect for digging, grading, and laying new roadbeds. It will also be good weather for planting, soon,” she finished pointedly.

  “Sir Eada, would you fetch the border map?” Zeilas asked. The lady Knight nodded and rose to fetch it from the scroll rack in the room serving as their office. Once she came back with it, he unrolled it and spread it out on the table, using some of the emptied plates to hold down the corners. “If you’re concerned about the food to feed all the road workers, then how about we concentrate on one new road ... um ... this one, between the Arbran town of Brightglade and the Guildaran one of ... Poverstowne? It’s a short enough distance, you can do some preliminary clearing of the trees and such, lay down a rough track, and then maybe Arbra can ship in cartloads of grain and vegetables to feed your workers while you turn the rough track into a decent road?”

  “Not Poverstowne,” she corrected, shaking her head. “Too many hills and trees on its west side—it’s near where Gabria grew up, and she’s described the terrain a time or two. It may seem a short distance, but it’s actually not very good. Between these two towns up here in the north might be better. The distance is longer by several miles, but the terrain is flatter, and there isn’t as much forest to clear-cut. I do know something of how you Arbrans revere your trees, and I wouldn’t ask you to let us chop down too many of them.”

  “Your care for our values is appreciated,” he allowed. Eyeing the map, Zeilas tapped the river valley at the southern edge. “What about the River Ev
ada? It does turn more toward Sundara down here than toward Arbra, but you could cut a road up over this line of hills ... ?”

  He leaned closer as he outlined his idea ... and became aware of his knee, which now brushed against her thigh. There hadn’t been too many opportunities to sneak a discreet kiss or three in the intervening weeks, but there had been a few. Now, though it wasn’t exactly an intimate touch, he was aware of just how feminine she looked, clad in the first dress he had seen on her. A dress which, for all it flared out over her legs in a swirl of knitted wool and linen, clung to her figure from the waist up.

  The sight of her breasts from this close, which looked to be the perfect handful in size, made him flush and fix his gaze firmly on the map. He didn’t remove his knee from its proximity to her leg, though. His flush deepened when he felt her leg shift, nudging her foot against his in a subtle, under-the-table caress.

  “That line of hills ... at that point ... are actually a line of cliffs and steep escarpments,” Marta said. She took a sip of juice, her boot, calf, and fabric-draped thigh brushing against his own. “There is a viable method of trading goods, without needing any new roads. It would require taking the caravans down this road from Arbra into Sundara, then porting them up the river on barges from this Sundaran town here ... but we still don’t have a Sundaran ambassador on hand to negotiate with and clear things up with their border guards, allowing the food to get through.”

  “Plus, it would add months to the journey.” It wasn’t easy to focus on their negotiations, but he did, tapping the northern route. “If this one has the fewest terrain obstacles, perhaps if we sent a few preliminary shipments of foodstuff via pack animals? Sending spare grains, dried fruits, and root vegetables that way might not bring you a lot, but it should supplement your workers’ diets enough to get that preliminary track laid through the no-man’s-land of the border. You’d be on your own for meats, since those don’t transport quite as well on pack animals. Most of it tends to be salted and stored in barrels, which are better suited for cart-based travel. And carts require roads, preferably good ones.”