King of Assassins: The Elven Ways: Book Three

by Jenna Rhodes

  Bistane dismounted in the lee side of the Larandaril stables and stretched his legs, taking stock of the lateness of the night and the quiet of the yard and wondered if Verdayne saw ghosts, too. He should ask him sometime. And then, disquiet hit the chill and damp air, a feeling of being held back as strong as if a firm hand had fallen upon his forearm to pull him aside. Bistane put his hand on his horse’s muzzle to keep him quiet and shouldered him back into a corner until he knew what had fallen on him, what shivered his senses in the air about him. He took caution even in the heart of his queen’s kingdom, for he’d passed Alton ild Fallyn on the road a few days ago, in the black-and-silver livery of his bloodline and wrapped in a temper darker than the shadows of midevening that shrouded them both, lashing into his horse. He had used his sword to clear his path of stray branches as though he were cutting down bandits, hooves drumming as he disappeared. Bistane had felt his lip curl back over his teeth as he sucked a breath inward. Well enough that he had pulled aside, out of caution. There was no love at all between the ild Fallyns and the Vantanes, and under these circumstances, yes, Alton might well have attacked him, claiming that he had been lying in wait to do the same. Blood spilled here and now would do no one any good, although doubtless the ild Fallyn could twist it to their advantage, regardless if Alton lived or died. Another of the few grievances he and his father had had between them. Bistel had counseled him: “You cannot feud with the ild Fallyn, even if they are as treacherous as the centuries are long, and they are, make no mistake of that. But there is no good end to fueling such hatred between our Houses, and no end at all until one side or the other is obliterated from the face of Kerith. So stay your hand, my son, and let time, and others, work the vengeance you seek.”

  He inhaled lightly. Still ghost-ridden, Bistane stayed himself a moment or so longer, thoughtfully, before taking the backdoor through the kitchen after turning his horse into pasture under the still sleepy-eyed guardianship of the stable boy who had spared him a grateful salute for the coin tipped into his hand.

  The warmth of Lariel’s manor rose to meet Bistane. It enveloped him, smelling of yeast for risen dough about to be put into the ovens and of flowers which dotted the various counters and tables and of the scented oils which burned softly in the wall sconces and ceiling lanterns. He found comfort in Lariel’s home as he did within his own walls. Once little more than a hunting lodge, it had been built upon over the centuries until it sprawled, a gracious and secure manor house, and the touch of its female ruler could be felt throughout every beam, brick, and weaving. As a lad, he could remember the fierce Warrior King, who’d held court in these buildings, his voice like steel cutting through ethereal distance and solid wall to find and beat down whoever he could when displeased. The old Anderieon, as Bistel had often referred to him, was a lean and shaggy war dog who could and would just as soon sever your tendons with his fangs as give you a lick in welcome. He remembered being afraid to his bones of the towering man with the fine, high cheekbones that cut the panes of his face into a terrible severity. The old Anderieon. Bistane shivered a bit in memorial before entering the manor.

  Farlen met him. He bowed deeply. “Warlord. The Queen is in consultation.”

  “Not recovering from Lord Alton’s spat of ill-humor?”

  “You knew he was here?”

  “I passed him on the road. It seemed wise to not let him be aware of me.”

  The corner of Farlen’s mouth quirked. “I suspect it is he who needs recovery, if any is needed. No, she is having words with Lord Dardanon.”

  “Oh, Sevryn’s back, is he? I should like to hear what he has to say, as well.”

  A cloud passed over Farlen’s features. “She’s not to be disturbed. They just went behind closed doors. I cannot tell you if it will be long or short.” He put a hand on Bistane’s shoulder. “Alton came to put in Tressandre’s claim that she carries a child from Jeredon.”

  “What?!”

  “Yes, well, it would indeed be miraculous. Whoever’s son it is, he’ll find her teats like ice when he tries to suckle. But there will be enough discussion on that in the morning. Let me see you fed, and your room made up, and you can rest from your journey. A bit of sleep might do you good.”

  “If sleep could.” He did not rest well at home. He doubted he would rest well here, particularly with that news to chew on. The only bed that gave him much sleep at all was hard ground, and little enough of that. One did not ride, these days, or make camp, without caution. You slept, if at all, with one eye open. He managed a smile. “A hot meal sounds appealing.”

  He ate in his chambers, unwilling to speak with anyone until he’d heard whatever Lara would tell him. She kept her own counsel and he disliked not being privy to many of her ideas. She hadn’t seen fit to send him news by bird, but then she knew he was already on the road and would hear soon enough. They warred arm in arm, but she did not hold the same trust in him that she had in his father. Why would she? He had not proven himself, not in her eyes and not in his.

  Suddenly tired beyond measure, he wrapped himself in a blanket and sank into whatever sleep he could find.

  He woke deep into the night. No sound, muffled or otherwise, echoed through the old wood and stone of the great manor house. He brought his own hot water up from pots always kept simmering on the kitchen hearth to make himself fit for the queen, whenever she decided to send for him.

  He sang to himself as he stripped down to wash what he could of the road dirt off him, enjoying the hot water even if not a full bath.

  Bistane dashed his razor into the last of the bathwater, cleaning it, as his voice trailed off. He couldn’t sing for her anymore. She’d lost her joyousness when she’d lost Jeredon. When she did listen to him at all, it was to hear the echoes of his father’s voice within his words, the refrain of his father’s advice and wisdom. It was as though he, as himself, did not exist at all except as a reflection of Bistel Vantane. He peered at himself in the small mirror, propped against the wall, and saw little to shore up his estimate of himself. He knew who he was before his father’s untimely death. Now . . . he had doubts, he supposed. Not that he was untried in life or in battle. He had not been at his father’s side when he was cut down. He had failed in that regard.

  Bistane looked down, realized his fist was clenched. He opened his hand slowly. He must have had it clenched for long moments, for his fingers had gone both stiff and pale, cramping when he tried to open them. In that regard, he was definitely his father’s son. He could have a stubborn will when set to it.

  He picked up a towel to dry his face. Time to show that will, then. He was tired of waiting for Lariel to acknowledge his presence, to summon him; whether she had deigned to give him a night’s peace or had forgotten about him altogether, he had no idea. Whichever it was, he wasn’t going to suffer it a moment longer.

  Bistane straightened his shirt, pivoted on heel, and went to find the woman, deep into the night or not.

  He passed two servant girls on the stairs. They ducked their heads and said nothing although he could hear faint giggles in his wake. Did they know he was headed toward the queen’s apartment? Or did they simply giggle because that’s what young lasses did? He used to understand such things, he thought. Or maybe that was because, once, he used to assume the attention was directed on him. Further doubt marked him when he heard one of the girls’ last words as they turned the corner, “Lord Tranta makes me blush, too . . .”

  He turned down the spacious wing where Lariel lived, had lived, with her brother. The traitorous seneschal Tiiva had had rooms here, too, he remembered although he had never been inclined to visit them. Tiiva, in her voluminous gowns of silk and satin, with a dagger sheath hidden in her sleeves. Disappeared and hoped dead, deceitful, alluring Tiiva.

  You can never tell an enemy by the foulness of their features or words. Yes, my father, I remember your saying that well. Bistane neared the doors marked dis
creetly in the far corner with Lara’s crest and slowed, brushing the palm of his hand over his hair. Did he still have that wild lick of hair that always showed up when he’d been sleeping? He thought he’d combed it down when he’d washed, but—

  Bistane bit off a curse under his breath. It did not matter. Nothing mattered but that Lara turn her eyes on him and finally see him and not the late, great Bistel. He was as deeply loyal to her service, but he was his own man. She had to see that of him, sooner or later. Did she not?

  Bistane stopped in his tracks. The door hung slightly ajar, latch out of place. Hastily entered or exited, he could not tell. But amiss. He drew his dagger hissing quietly from its sheath, put a booted foot in the door to ease it open, and slipped in.

  The rooms were draped for nighttime, the heavy curtains still down on the windows of the far wall. But she had neither dined nor slept in the first two rooms, and he turned the corner beyond them, to enter a room he had seen a few times in his capacity as his father’s aide when she conferred with Bistel. An odd room, spare, with a table and a heavy wooden chair that sat, throne-like, in front of a window that took in the horizon of the forested hills of Larandaril. He could see as he moved into it that the drapes had not been brought down here, and silvery moonlight bathed the room.

  A muffled sound drew him closer. When he came to the chair, he saw Lariel, tied to the arms, slumped as if asleep and fighting a dread nightmare, her body twitching and her face etched deeply in strain and tension, her mouth half-open as if she tried to scream. “Lara!”

  Kneeling, he cut her bonds. Was this how Sevryn had left her, or had someone else been in this room? He cradled her face between his hands. “Lara. You’re all right. I’m here. Wake. You’re all right!”

  Her eyes flicked open for a moment as if she fought sleep with every ounce of her being. He cradled her tighter, her smooth skin chill under his palms. Her chest heaved as she sucked down air like a drowning person, and her arms came up to claw at him. He grasped one strong wrist and then the other to keep her from harming either himself or her.

  And then her eyes flew open and stayed that way, pupils distended, the whites of her eyes showing as well, like a frightened animal.

  Suddenly she screamed, “Assassin!”

  LARA BOLTED UPRIGHT INTO HIS ARMS, shuddering, taking another breath to cry aloud again, and he put his palm over her mouth. “You’re all right,” he whispered in her ear as he pulled her close. “Calm. Quiet. Center yourself. No one is here but us.”

  After long moments, her trembling quieted and her breathing returned to normal, so he took his palm from her lips. She did not move away from his comforting embrace immediately. When she did, she put her chin up and the woman he knew as Lara became the Warrior Queen.

  “Treachery,” she said.

  “So I gathered. I found you tied here. Unharmed yet beset.”

  She pushed her hair from her face, tossing it back as she stood. She took a step. Tottered as she did so. Bistane moved close again, lending his support, half-walking and half-carrying her to her writing desk in the main rooms.

  She sat down and watched as he lit two lamps. “Get Farlen. And Sevryn.”

  “I will, but . . .” he paused. “I was told Sevryn was here with you, consulting.”

  “He was.” She frowned. “Just find him for me.”

  The seneschal he found easily, sleeping in his rooms a floor below. Of Sevryn Dardanon there was no sign, nor of Rivergrace either. Bistane returned uneasily to Lara. If Sevryn were the assassin of which she spoke, nothing could have stopped him from his goal. Yet she lived still. Unless Lara was not his target.

  Dawn was threatening at her windows as he entered her rooms. She stood up at his news, straightening herself as if putting on yet another layer of armor. “Mount a guard. I will find them.” Her hand clenched and unclenched. “He is in my service and she may think she follows in the steps of a River Goddess, but this is my kingdom, and I will find them!”

  Sevryn raced the horses as far as they could at night. At dawn, they paused to rest the horses and take a bit of food. Sevryn climbed a tree to be certain of his scouting and came down with nothing to report but a troubled look on his face.

  Grace put her hand over his. “Yet you saw nothing.”

  “No and that worries me more than seeing horsemen on our trail. Because she will come after us, I am certain.”

  “What did you do? Or is it me? Have I done something?”

  He bent and brushed his lips over her hand covering his. “Never you, though I don’t doubt she bristles a bit at your lack of experience with Vaelinar scheming.”

  “Bristle? It’s more than that. Ever since I found Fire, she’s feared me.”

  “Fire is a power that isn’t easily controlled, even within the bricks of a hearth. She may be wary of you, but Lara’s not the kind of person who will kill someone who makes her uneasy.” He shifted his weight and shook his head. “No, it’s me and what I’ve done is not what I’ve done yet. It’s what she may fear that I will do.”

  “Must you speak in riddles?”

  The corner of his mouth quirked. “It seems I must. I gave her an oath, Grace, and beyond that, there are things you’re better off not knowing, if we can’t win free of Larandaril. Just know that she thinks I may try to kill her.”

  She tilted her head. “Will you?”

  “No. Not unless she threatens you and there’s no other recourse.”

  “But she trails us now.”

  He put his finger on her chin. “Because she thinks she has reason to.”

  “How could she think such a thing?”

  “That, you’re better off not knowing and I gave my word. And she is wrong. Very wrong.” He turned his face away.

  “We can’t waste time here if she means to take us prisoner.”

  “No, but I can’t spend the horses too dearly yet either. We’ll go again in a few moments. Glow and Pavan need to crop a bit. If she means to imprison us, we’re not likely to find replacement mounts or other aid easily.”

  “We’ll be on the run.”

  “Probably.”

  “Where are we headed?”

  “Ild Fallyn Stronghold.”

  “What?” Her face paled.

  “It’s not what you think.” He captured her hand, as she jerked away from him. “Never that. I’ll never join them not even if Lara and all the lords were on our heels.”

  “Then why?”

  “If Lara believes, as I think she might, that I’ve turned against her, then she stands alone except for Bistane and Tranta. I won’t leave her vulnerable.” His lips thinned. “I intend to take a bit of diplomacy into my own hands.”

  She gripped his hand tightly then. “Sevryn.”

  “Don’t judge me.”

  “I’m not, how can I? Yet you speak of murder.”

  “Not exactly. Alton will get a challenge. He’ll take it. That should cripple Tressandre long enough for Lariel to get her support consolidated. That’s all she will need.”

  “How can you even think of that?”

  Sevryn studied her. She wore her distress openly, as she did most of her emotions and feelings in her expression, not masked as the high elven practiced. Not deceitful. “The question should be: how can you not? If ever a bug deserved to be squashed, it’s Alton.” He touched her chin. “It’s a blessing that you don’t, but you have to understand, the ild Fallyns have had Lara’s death planned for centuries. Now that I’m no longer under Lara’s constraints, I can work to ensure their plans will never succeed. She won’t appreciate it, but I can’t walk away free until I’ve done this.”

  “And then?”

  “And then, you and I will discover the Eastern lands, beyond the wastes of the Mageborn, and far away to the Eastern sea.”

  Darkness clouded her eyes. “Nutmeg . . .”

>   “We could stop and take her with us. And Lily and Tolby and all your brothers.” Sevryn grinned at her then. “I wouldn’t mind uprooting the Farbranch family.”

  “That might take a bit of digging.”

  “I’d make time for it.”

  “All the while ducking Lariel?”

  “Anything to make you happy.”

  She laughed then, thin and light, but still a laugh. He turned her about and brought her into his embrace, and they were both quiet for long moments, watching the horses graze, as the dawn came up bright and proper.

  Pavan threw his head up, a gleam in his eye. He arched his neck as if to whicker, but Sevryn got to the horse first, hand on his nose, bringing it to his chest to muffle him. The horse stomped a hoof. Around them, the clearing became startlingly, suddenly, quiet. Birds that had woken before dawn broke stopped their singing and noise-making. Rodents schussing through the grasses to find shoots and seeds to nibble lay low, inaudible, as though a massive predator now stalked the area. One must. The only sound that had not changed except perhaps that it had grown louder was the flow of the River Andredia. Its waters could be heard even more clearly moving over the sand and stone of its bed, swiftly but not flooding. Sweetwater, undeniable in the way it washed through her senses. Yet, the clarity and purity of the river did not wash away her apprehension that something close by was terribly wrong. Rivergrace looked to Sevryn, and as she did, she drew her short sword.