Stormshadow (Storms in Amethir Book 2)

by Stephanie A. Cain

  The guard swore and reached inside the room. He drew out a sword and a lantern. Stepping into the hall, he pulled the door shut behind him. Orya heard the lock click into place.

  This was an unfortunate turn of events. From the color of his skin, the man looked to be from Strid. Sleep dust wouldn't work on the Strid. Common belief was that so many of the Strid handled the lazyflower from which sleep dust derived that they had developed a racial immunity to it. Orya didn't know if that was true, but she knew she wasn't equipped to take on the guard.

  Thunder cracked overhead. Orya jumped. Fortunately for her, the guard jumped too. As Orya was reeling to regain her balance, the guard was swearing and shaking his head. Any other time, Orya would have laughed. But she couldn't afford to kill him, which was what she would be forced to, should she attract his attention.

  Orya put a fingertip in her mouth, hooking the nail on her teeth but not biting it. Killing a guard would raise the wrong kind of suspicion. Of course, even if Orya succeeded in poisoning the dress without killing the guard, there were possible complications. What if Eustra checked the dress a final time before handing it over to the princess? If the woman died of the poison, the dress would never reach the princess, and Thorne the watchdog would realize someone intended Azmei harm. All of Orya's work would be more difficult from that point.

  The guard heaved a deep sigh and walked towards the stairs. Orya waited, pressed against the wall, until the guard's footsteps retreated down the stairs. She could try to pick the lock before he returned. She probably should try. Orya wasn't optimistic about her chances, though. She was an excellent assassin, but only a mediocre lockpick.

  And if she were honest with herself, she didn't want to try. Poisoning the dress had been an ambitious plan, especially considering Orya was trying to assassinate a royal. If it had only been one of the Ten Families, the security might not have been as tight. With Tamnen's only princess, it stood to reason that Thorne would cover all weak spots.

  Rather than wait for the guard to finish patrolling the building and possibly catch her on his return, Orya let herself back into the business office. It had a small window overlooking the alley. Orya eased it open, scanned the alley below, and, seeing nothing stirring, climbed through. The window ledge provided enough support for her to ease the window shut behind her. She sidestepped her way along the wall, clinging to the slightest rough spot in the limestone, until she had reached far side of the shop next to Eustra's. Then, judging herself far enough away, she lowered her body until she was hanging from the ledge.

  She dropped, knees bending to absorb the shock of landing. Her boots gripped instantly, telling her the storm hadn't yet broken over the island. Orya didn't want to get wet. She tugged her hood forward again and moved towards the main road more rapidly than she had come earlier.

  As she slipped out of the alley, Orya's shoulders twitched. She paused and looked around her, but no one was visible. Not even an alley cat or stray dog could be seen. The hair on the back of her neck was crawling, though. Something wasn't right.

  It's just the storm, she told herself. Get on your way.

  She wanted to believe it, but with all the other precautions Thorne had taken, wouldn't he have guarded the shop from without as well as within? Orya put her fingertip in her mouth again. How best to handle this?

  She hunted in the refuse along the side of the alley until she found an empty bottle. She kicked it hard and made a retching noise. There were no taverns along here, but a person could get strong drink nearly anywhere. It would at least disguise her true intentions here. She stumbled out into the main road, reeling but being careful not to overdo it.

  There--she saw the movement from the corner of her eye. Rather than spin to face it, she paused, staring down at her feet as if she had stepped in something. Without moving her head, she scanned her periphery. Yes, there was a figure swathed in dark cloth. To hide her triumph, Orya reached down and touched her shoe.

  "Ugh! Dog shit." She lowered her voice and roughened it. Her observer would think her male and give it less thought. "Sirens take 'em." That was a nautical oath, not one most Tamnese used. Orya's shoulders relaxed. Her watcher, whomever he was, would never see through her disguise.

  As she stumbled and bumbled her way uphill towards the university, she tried very hard to ignore the last glimpse she'd gotten: a dark beard streaked with gray, a cowl that dipped to obscure eyes and nose. He wasn't Destar Thorne, certainly. But who he was, Orya had no clue.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Azmei sighed and leaned against the stone windowsill. Last night's storm had missed Ranarr. She'd watched the lightning in the distance, counting the heartbeats from flash to crash, and thought about how the old wives at home had predicted how long it would take for a storm to arrive: Count ten beats of your heart for every mile you and the storm are apart.

  She wondered if it were the same calculation in Amethir, or if stormwitchery fouled the calculation.

  She hadn't been able to see Vistaren today. General Lozarr had said something about protocol and political obligations. It sounded legitimate, but Azmei suspected the general had plenty of practice at making flimsy excuses sound like earth-shatteringly plausible circumstances.

  What if Vistaren had decided he didn't like her after all? What would Azmei tell her father and brother? How could she face them again?

  "Princess?"

  Azmei turned to look at Guira, who hovered in the doorway. "What is it?"

  "Orya Perslyn wishes to call on you." Guira frowned. "I told her Captain Thorne will be arriving soon for an appointment with you, but she is set upon seeing the dress Eustra made for you."

  Azmei sighed. "Oh, it's all right. I should have made a point to show her, as it's Perslyn silk. Tell her I'll be out in a moment."

  She was pleased with the dress Eustra had made. The golden silk emphasized Azmei's tawny eyes while complementing her skin. The cut was pretty but still practical. And the silk was very fine indeed. Azmei stood in front of the mirror to be certain she was presentable, then went out to the sitting room.

  Orya broke into applause as soon as she saw Azmei. Her enthusiasm brought a genuine smile to Azmei's lips. She executed a slow twirl in response, spreading the skirt for full effect.

  "It's a pretty dress, isn't it? The quality of your wares is exquisite."

  "It is a beautiful dress," Orya said, smiling. "I predict my entire stock shall sell out before your wedding. Everyone will be vying for a copy of the dress Eustrid created for the future queen."

  "We don't know for sure yet that I will ever be Queen of Amethir," Azmei protested. She knew it was ridiculous to argue--she was marrying Amethir's only heir, after all--but she wasn't quite ready to consider being queen. "And besides, what do the Ranarri care about the queen of another country, especially when they have no queens of their own?"

  "Everyone expects you shall be queen, whatever is yet to happen," Orya said, with a wry twist of her lips. "And you, of all people, should know that everyone cares about the royalty of every country. You're royal. Born with special position and privilege. People are always curious about that. Especially people who have no experience of royals of their own."

  "Curious," Azmei repeated, tilting her head. She supposed being royalty was interesting to outsiders, but it carried with it a great deal of responsibility. She had never been tempted to throw away her palace life to go live as a shepherd, certainly, but she wished she knew more of how the common folk lived. "I suppose so. And here am I, curious about how silk merchants from Meekin live."

  Orya snorted. "Nothing so glamorous as a princess' life, I can promise you." She flicked her fan open. "It's warm today, isn't it?"

  Azmei settled into a chair. "The Ranarri say it's the heat that has fueled these storms this week. But I rather like the heat," she said. "For that matter, I like all of Ranarr. I hadn't expected to, but it's a lovely city. I only hope I shall like Amethir as much as I do Ranarr."

>   "And what about the prince?" Orya probed. "Do you like the prince as much as you like Ranarr?"

  Azmei felt herself blush and hoped Orya was not watching for it. "He...isn't as bad as I had feared he would be," Azmei said. She flicked her own fan open and fanned herself. "He's very young. I'm a year older, did you know that? You wouldn't think it would make such a difference, but it does."

  Orya laughed. "It just means you'll be able to train him into the husband you want." She slanted a look at Azmei. "Especially in private matters. Younger men are so eager to please."

  Azmei's face grew very hot. How dare Orya speak to her of such things? "You're impertinent."

  "What are friends for?" Orya grinned slyly at her. "Princesses are so carefully guarded. You've probably never been with a man."

  "Of course not!" Azmei stared at her, mouth dropping open. "My virtue belongs not to me, but to my kingdom."

  "Ridiculous." Orya waved her fan lazily and leaned back in her seat. "Your honor might belong to your kingdom, but your virtue is yours alone, to keep or give away as you see fit. And honor and virtue are not, despite what some would say, the same thing."

  Azmei shook her head. She didn't want to talk about this. Not with anyone, but particularly not with Orya. How dare the other woman judge her own ruler! "I've never met anyone I would want to be with, anyway. And once I am married, I shall belong to my husband, as he will belong to me."

  "Do you really believe princes are faithful?" Orya shrugged. "But I suppose this one might be. Your brother has always been very discreet, if he has affairs. The Strid prince, though--the elder, I mean--is notorious for his womanizing."

  Azmei turned away. "I don't want to know anything about my brother's past. Or Vistaren's. It is their business, not mine." She didn't think Razem had ever been in love. She wasn't so naïve as to think that meant he had never been with a woman, but she didn't want to think about it.

  Orya made her laugh gentle and somewhat condescending. "And yet your virtue is your kingdom's business?"

  "Well, it certainly isn't yours," Azmei snapped. She stood and stalked away from Orya. She was fanning herself faster now.

  "Do you not see they hold you to a different standard than they do princes? For all your vaunted independent thought and playing with daggers, they all still see you as a pretty thing to dress up and give to whomever pays most for your virtue."

  Azmei whirled on her. "How dare you--" she began, and Orya interrupted. She interrupted her princess.

  "I apologize," she said quickly. "I have offended you." She stood. "I will withdraw."

  If she expected Azmei to call her back, she would be sorely disappointed. Azmei watched her leave without giving her the dignity of a response. As soon as the door shut behind her, Azmei called to Guira.

  "I will see no one until Destar arrives. Orya Perslyn is not welcome to return this evening."

  She stormed into her sleeping chamber, angry at Orya, but also angry at herself. Why had she allowed the other woman to upset her? She had no reason to feel ashamed of her choices. Royalty should live as a sacrifice to the kingdom. Was it asking so much that she abstain from certain pleasures?

  She threw herself into the cushioned window seat and propped her chin on her hand. Lightning flickered and she automatically began to count her heartbeats. Then she stopped, feeling stupid. Her heartbeat was faster than usual, so it wouldn't be accurate. Besides, what did it matter? The storm would hit or it wouldn't, and either way, she was inside solid stone walls.

  She had never cared one way or another about storms before learning she would be going to live in a kingdom where storms could be used as weapons by a select few people. Vistaren had brought a stormwitch with him, hadn't he? What would she think of this storm? Perhaps it was her doing that last night's storm had deflected to the north.

  Azmei sighed. What if Vistaren had loved other women before? Would he have abstained out of fear of having bastards, or would it matter in Amethir? She couldn't think of any kingdom where it would be a good thing for royalty to have illegitimate children. Succession could be such a cloudy issue anyway.

  No, surely Vistaren wouldn't have taken that chance.

  But what if he had?

  He had said he didn't wish to have secrets between them when they married. Could this be what he had meant? What if he already knew about children? Azmei had never given the prospect of becoming a mother much thought; it would happen because it was the role of a princess to marry and bear children. But was it something she craved? What if Vistaren had been with other women who gave him children? Even worse, what if he had children by others, but could have none with Azmei?

  She slumped down, laying her arms on the windowsill and her head on her arms. It didn't matter. She would marry him regardless. She must marry him. And she would worry about his past only if and when it mattered.

  Whatever else happened, she could not let Orya's crass insinuations drive a wedge of mistrust between her and Vistaren.

  Lightning flashed outside and Azmei counted only fifteen heartbeats between that and the crash of thunder that rattled the pane of glass in its setting. The storm was getting closer. She tilted her head so she could watch the black clouds roil in. The sun hadn't set, but the clouds had darkened the sky so much it looked like twilight outside. It was beautiful, in a powerful, almost frightening way.

  Rain spattered against the windowpane. Azmei flinched at the first unexpected drops, then smiled and watched them roll down the pane. She got up and found the glass of wine she had abandoned when Orya arrived. Refilling it was perhaps not a good idea, but she had only drunk half of it, anyway. She took her glass back to the window seat and settled back against the cushions to watch the lightning show.

  Twenty minutes later, the storm was still working itself into its strongest. Guira's knock was nearly drowned out by the crashes of thunder overhead.

  "Come!" Azmei called.

  "Captain Thorne is here, my lady."

  "Show him in. You might as well come in as well, Guira. He may have news or instructions for us both, concerning security for the upcoming betrothal celebration."

  Guira disappeared for a moment, then returned, leading Destar. He came in and bowed deeply without even a glance at the folding screen that hid Azmei's bed from the rest of the chamber.

  "Sit down, Destar, and let us talk," Azmei said. "Guira will pour you a cup of wine. Have you eaten?"

  "I have no need of supper, princess. A cup of wine wouldn't go amiss, though, I confess. The weather gets my knee all tight, and wine does help."

  Azmei nodded. "Is all well, Captain?"

  "As well as I can make it. My soldiers are pleased with how the Ranarri are conducting themselves. These Diplomats mean business when they say they believe in peace. My thanks, Guira." Destar took the wine Guira handed him and sipped. "Many of my security requirements are redundant because of university policy. I won't complain about that, though I do hear a bit of grumbling from the men since I don't let them slacken their own duties because of it."

  Azmei shrugged. "If the Ranarri are doing your men's work for them, why not let them?"

  "You want me to rely on the diligence of folk we aren't sure of? Oh, nothing against the Ranarri," he added, "but I'm sure of myself, and I'm sure of my men and women. I've been diligent about weeding out the bad well before now. Can we say the same about the Diplomats?"

  "I suppose not. But I hope you aren't being obvious about it. We wouldn't like to offend them, either."

  Destar bobbed his head. "Protocol's protocol," he said. "If there's one thing these Diplomats understand, it's that. They don't take any offense. Matter of fact, I've had more than one issue praise at our diligence."

  Azmei laughed. "Well, I have no further complaint myself, then. And what of the Amethirians? Is all well there?"

  "As far as I know." Destar took another drink of his wine. "The prince is busy, but then, the Amethirians and Ranarri are close neighbors, after all."

  "The m
ainland north of us, across the bay?" Azmei said.

  "Aye. All of the mainland is Amethir, now. Parts of it might not have been, a century ago, but the Ranarri Diplomats have been in power here for many centuries. None of the mainland ever belonged to Ranarr."

  "Why would they want the mainland?" Azmei said. She waved a hand at the window. "They have all they could want here."

  Destar chuckled. "You'll do well in Amethir. Their dry season is supposed to be much like the weather we've seen here, this week's storms aside."

  Azmei's stomach fluttered. She sat straighter. "I'm glad to hear it. I suppose the wet season will grow tiresome, but at least the dry season will be pleasant."

  "I'm told the palace is a lovely building, every bit as grand as the university here, and then some," Destar said. "I've done some asking around, looking for those who've actually been there."

  "Good." Azmei lifted her cup to her lips and was surprised to find it empty. She held it out to Guira for a refill. It wasn't at all wise, but she didn't care tonight.

  What if Orya was right about Vistaren? What if he was nothing like he seemed now once they returned to his home? What if Azmei was agreeing to a life of misery?

  Don't be ridiculous, she told herself. She gulped her wine. "How long before the storm season arrives in Amethir?"

  How long did she have before she must stop stalling and sign the treaty that declared them married?

  Destar scratched his chin, blunt fingers rasping against evening shadow. "Let's see, the rainy season ended perhaps six weeks ago now. I'd say another twelve weeks before the storm season arrives in force. But the Storm Petrel won't sail with royalty on board anytime close to storm season. I'd say the Dawn Star will have to leave port in another eight weeks, to stay on the lee side of things."

  Eight weeks. How could she hope to discover enough about Vistaren to be sure of her decision in only eight weeks? Azmei gulped her wine again.

  "You needn't make up your mind in that time, my lady." Destar's voice was low. "If more time is what's needed, you can wait until the rainy season to travel to Amethir."