Treason's Shore

by Sherwood Smith

  “My darling boy! Here at last!” She enfolded him in a tender embrace.

  She smelled wonderful—making him aware that he did not. She said nothing direct. She never had been indelicate. With an airy promise that as soon as he was refreshed and ready, they would have a cozy chat, she left him outside of a beautiful suite, which included a tiled bath with a magically heated waterfall. Everywhere in this ancient castle lay evidence of her exquisite taste—and the wealth to indulge it.

  He was clean and dressed in one of his traveling outfits when he rejoined his mother, damp hair spread over his shoulders, having been toweled and combed out by an expert. He had to admit he missed that kind of handling.

  The cozy chat was not to be alone, he discovered as she brought forward a tall, gray-haired man by the hand. “Here is my son, darling.” Her dark-lashed golden eyes lifted to the man, who was clearly besotted. “My Taumad.”

  And to Tau, “This is Ored Elsaraen, my darling. We were married last Midsummer Day.”

  Tau had noticed the ducal symbol by then: the white stylized lily of Colend, slightly altered. Gold lily for kings, silver lily for princes, white for dukes. He had learned that at his mother’s knee, never questioning why he had to learn it.

  “Let us go in to eat. You must be hungry,” she declared.

  Tau would have preferred to meet his mother alone first. She obviously thought her exalted rank a welcome surprise, but her bringing the duke into their first meeting was no mere flourish. His mother never did anything without purpose, to the smallest movement of her hand, or the way she managed her sweeping skirts. Art. Artful. Just like me.

  So he followed the duke into a tower where a charming room of intimate proportion had been set up for dining, the dishes fine painted porcelain, the utensils gold.

  The quiet, efficient staff entered after them, bearing trays whose contents were served with a finesse Tau recognized from his own experience. The room had only the one entrance, with no anterooms, even a discreet servants’ door. This room was designed to be private. Interesting.

  The servants left and shut the door noiselessly behind them.

  “So! Tell us about your adventures.” Saris poured out fine Sartoran steep for them all.

  “Mostly sailing, and of late I was touring Iasca Leror.”

  “My poor boy,” Saris protested. “It has to be the singular most boring kingdom in the world. How relieved you must have been to hear from your Jeje once she discovered me! She enchanted the entire court.”

  He did not miss the subtle question implied: Why was it Jeje and not you who sought me? “How did she come to find you, Mother?”

  Saris laughed lightly. “Through my relations. The younger generations aren’t interested in old quarrels. So it seemed I was to be permitted once again to use my family name—”

  “Which is Dei?” Tau asked, knowing he had the last puzzle piece. The what, if not the why.

  “—which I had begun to use again anyway. Once she had the name, it seemed easy enough to find me. The family has always kept track of my movements, though I did not know it.” Saris spread her hands in a graceful gesture. “I did send you a message as soon as I could contrive, which probably still lies at Parayid awaiting you.” She tipped her head, her lovely mouth curling at the corners just enough to dimple her cheek.

  “I never went down that far. The harbors had no trade during the long siege by the Venn, so I didn’t think I’d find out anymore than I had directly following after the pirate battle.” Tau sat back. “I gather it’s easier for the exalted family to accept strays back into the fold when they come with titles ribboned round their necks.”

  Saris did not deny it. She clapped lightly, then addressed the duke. “You see, my dear. My son has my wit as well as my taste.”

  The duke spoke for the first time. “You say you were in Iasca Leror, Taumad. Is it true they threw the Venn back into the sea?”

  Tau turned the cup around in his hand. It was made of thin porcelain. The painted clusters of berries gracefully dotting the edges glowed like rubies in the sunlight. Like blood . . .

  He blinked away the unexpected memory. “In a sense.”

  Sarias fluttered her fingers. “Please, darling boy, let us not ruin the peace of the morning with Marlovan rumors. Listening to third- and fourthhand speculations in court was tedious enough.”

  “For what it’s worth, Mother, my testimony is firsthand. I was there, in my modest capacity. The Venn commander made it clear enough he had no intention of returning unless ordered to.”

  The duke’s brows rose. Saris put her hands together and rested her chin daintily on her fingertips. “Firsthand, yes? The rumors did put you—in several amusing guises—at the right hand of the one they call Elgar the Fox. So do all these bloodthirsty tales really concern the little boy you brought home after your first sea journey? He was an appealing urchin, but I find it difficult to believe he could lead navies against pirates and hew down by his own hand hundreds of warriors without taking a scratch.” She tipped her head. “Are you sure you are not being too modest? That his successes might have your brains as inspiration? You were very loyal to him, as I remember.”

  “Whatever brains I have do not encompass that kind of planning,” Tau responded. “I have no ability in military leadership. I was never one of his captains. Just an errand runner. But of course a good one,” he added mockingly, seeing her about to protest. He poured out more steep as he shifted the subject to one he knew she’d enjoy. “So, Mother, what is like, being a duchess?”

  Saris was never boring. She did not brag or revel in triumph. Her stories about the Adrani royal court were amusing and historically astute, but Tau sensed an undercurrent of question that strengthened as the meal came at last to a close.

  His impression that she was observing him for a specific purpose grew when she invited him to join the company, for Saris had several court guests staying with her to whom she introduced her son. No titles or explanations, he noticed, just his name. His real name. “This is my darling son, Taumad Dei.”

  Taumad Dei. He needed time to get used to that.

  As she led him to a chair and signaled to the waiting musicians, he sensed her disappointment in his lack of surprise, of amazement. He knew that everything, from the cozy meal to this gathering, had been carefully calculated, and that his behavior was being gauged. He sat back, appreciating fine music after months of Marlovan drums as the company exchanged civilized discourse, quick and full of wit and allusion. He smiled, but made no effort to join in.

  On parting for the night, Saris caressed him, her voice tender yet a little exasperated. “Sleep well. I have many delightful activities planned for your enjoyment.”

  He was left feeling that she’d taken over his life again and was directing it like a play. He resented it with all his boyhood vehemence. That did not last past his thinking, with habitual self-mockery, don’t I do exactly the same?

  Tdor yawned as she opened the door to the Harskialdna suite. Late, low light slanted through the single window in the bedroom, deep in its alcove.

  She walked in and up the three steps in the alcove to the stone seat adjacent to the window. She’d tried to make this window seat a favorite place, but in winter the window was too cold—the fire roaring in the fireplace did not seem to reach it—and in summer, the blazing sun would stream straight in, making it too hot.

  She turned her back on the alcove and stretched her hands out to the fire. Inda lay on the bed, surrounded by a moat of papers. He looked up, his smile a blend of surprise and welcome that always filled her inner being with light.

  He brandished a pile of notes. “Here are the last of ’em. By the first day, I’ll know all their names. Then all I have to do is put the names to faces.”

  “What are all these other piles?” she asked, carefully moving one so she could sit on the corner of the bed.

  “Reports from the north. Evred wants me to read all the patrol reports, every incident. Get a sen
se of what’s going on up there. Look at that! For a fellow who hasn’t read a book in almost ten years, I’m catching up fast.”

  “Not books.” She touched the nearest report. “You’re not reading books. You’re reading reports.”

  “The difference being?”

  She flipped a braid back. “You really have forgotten, if you have to ask. Books take us outside of ourselves. Reports just detail the world we know.”

  “Outside of ourselves.” He repeated it slowly, and again. “Outside of ourselves.”

  Tdor sat beside him, concern escalating to worry. “Inda, what is it?”

  He thumped his fist lightly on the papers. “Maybe that will do it. I need to read books again.” He shut his eyes, so he could hear her voice. Faces didn’t often tell him much—even Tdor’s, now that they were grown and he had missed so many years of seeing her. But voices were always revealing, and her quick words, the rise in her voice meant she was anxious. That made him anxious. “I feel stupid.”

  “Inda! Where does that come from? How could you possibly think you are stupid?” She sounded irritated but not frantic—not as if she were hiding anything. Like a worry that he was losing his wits.

  Cautiously relieved, he said, “I feel stupider than when I was young, reading with you and Hadand and Joret in the archive.”

  She sat up briskly. “That’s easy to fix. The archive here is much bigger than at ho—at Tenthen. Read a good record. Where did you leave off?”

  “Maybe I should just start over again. Do the easy ones, like that Cassadas Atanhas one. Meant for when you’re five or six.”

  Tdor said, “That’s a great idea. You’re going to discover it’s different, reading it now. We just thought of it as tedious language lessons, Iascan on one page, Marlovan on the other. Simple history. Now you’ll get a hint of the queen who wrote it for her son so he wouldn’t forget his Iascan side as he became a Marlovan. You’ll see how words change, that she didn’t pick ‘atan’ just because it’s easy. She picked it because the sun was the Cassadas symbol, and ‘setting sun’ in the old, old days could mean more things than fading to darkness. She wrote another in case she had a daughter. It’s all about archives, at least the words are, but the meaning is about how ways of life can be destroyed unless you keep records.”

  He heard her old enthusiasm, but there was a tightness to some words, and she spoke quickly. He opened his eyes. Tdor sat next to him, taut, almost not breathing, her entire body a silent question.

  He put down his papers. “Something’s wrong. You came in because something’s wrong.”

  “Children,” she said bluntly. “Have you thought about that? You and I.”

  “Oh.” He looked blank. “No. I hadn’t. I mean, someday, when we’re, you know, old. Parent age.” He waved his papers vaguely. “Though I know Evred told everyone not to wait the usual fifteen or twenty years. On account of the Venn. I wonder if he still means that?”

  She said, “I think we could take our direction from Hadand and Evred. Except . . .”

  “What? Can’t you ask Hadand? I suppose I could ask Evred.”

  “Don’t.”

  It came out too quickly. He dropped his papers, and now she had all his attention.

  She wandered to the fire to warm her hands, while she scolded herself for speaking without thinking. She considered what to say, and what not to say, then turned around, to find him still waiting. “I don’t think we should bring it up until Hadand and Evred say that they have a baby coming. By whatever means that works. I think it would be horrible for Hadand if we were first. Though she wouldn’t say. But I’d know.”

  “You decide when,” Inda said, and returned to his papers, relieved to postpone a subject that just seemed too alien. He had enough to think about.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE windows of Castle Tenthen had been opened for two full days, as Choraed Elgaer enjoyed its first mild weather of the year. The spring scour-out was nearly done. Fareas-Iofre had left for last the job she enjoyed most, the dusting of each of her precious books and scrolls. She’d perform that task after her morning watch at her husband’s bedside.

  Jarend-Adaluin laid under a fresh blanket, his hair brushed, white against the creamy linen pillow covering. His breast scarcely moved with his light breaths. How tenuous was the connection between his soul and his body!

  She stretched her hand lightly over his knobby one lying loose on the blanket. Sometimes he wakened at her touch.

  There had never been passion between them, but there had been respect, consideration, friendship. He’d endured a long life full of disappointments, and she included herself among them, for she never could replace the one love of his life. But he’d said just before New Year’s Week, during one of his lucid mornings, that one learns to redefine one’s expectations when those of youth are denied. He’d come to love riding the countryside through all the seasons. He’d admired her wisdom and scholarship, balanced with unceasing care over Tenthen. And he was proud of his sons, who had been called to serve the king. Inda’s return home had definitely roused his father out of the dreamworld, however briefly. Jarend said that his Inda becoming Harskialdna was the highest honor of all.

  He had repeated that several times, though he did not always remember that the king was not Tlennen. She did not remind him that Tlennen had been murdered by Mad Gallop Yvana-Vayir’s ambition. Jarend’s loyalty to Tlennen had an emotional component difficult to define, but enduring.

  Where will my soul go? he asked a few days later. I used to want to join my Joret in death, but age sometimes clears your vision. She never wanted me. It was always my brother Indevan. He was beloved by us all . . . and loved his ease as he loved to laugh . . . I could never raise my hand against him . . .

  The Old Sartorans promise peace beyond the physical world, she had said. Beyond sight, beyond hearing, taste, or touch, indefinable because we are bound by the limitations of life here. Some insist that once the soul escapes its physical bonds it vanishes into nothing, but if so, why would we think so often about what lies beyond, why do some catch glimpses, as if just around a corner we can barely at times perceive?

  He had smiled a little. Around a corner, he’d repeated. I am content with knowing they are there, my father, my mother, the others, going back and back. Just around a corner.

  It was comforting, and the unsolvable mysteries of the universe did not preclude it. But try as she might, she couldn’t see the corner. She couldn’t see ghosts like Jarend did. She’d once thought only those who loved intensely could perceive ghosts, yet she loved her children at least as much as Jarend had ever loved his beautiful first wife, but though Fareas had tried hard for years to discover a hint of Tanrid anywhere in the castle, she’d had no success.

  Was that because he had never liked being indoors, not from his earliest childhood? He’d done his duty—he was like his father that way—but he’d always been happiest outside. If he were a ghost—if human perceptions of justice existed beyond the realm of the physical—then Tanrid would be riding the borders through season after season, beyond the pain of winter’s cold or summer’s heat, accompanied by his beloved and faithful horses and hounds, all forever young.

  The rightness of this vision seized her with poignant regret and longing and sweetness, all impossibly jumbled but all the more intense for the mixture. Her breath caught in her chest, and tears burned her eyes. If Jarend wakened, she would tell him her vision, in case it might comfort him as well.

  Jarend lay so quietly in her blurred sight. A quick, sharp tingle through her nerves caused her to scrub her eyes against her wrist. The edge of her wrist sheath banged painfully against the bridge of her nose. She shook her head, then bent over Jarend. He was no longer breathing. Sometime during her air-dreaming he had slipped free of the leash.

  She laid her hand on his thin chest. There was no steady beat of heart. Emotions chased through her mind, too swift to catch. She rose, her legs trembling.

  Just outsid
e the room Jarend’s old Runner was carrying a basket of sun-freshened linens. “He’s gone.” Her voice sounded like someone else’s in her own ears.

  The Runner set down his basket very slowly. Fareas held out her hand, and they gripped their fingers together, then walked back into the airy room, now empty of life, to do what must be done.

  Presently Fareas walked downstairs, not quite sure where she was going. Not sure even whom to speak to. Tdor now lived with Hadand and Inda in the royal city, Joret was gone over the mountains. Branid, scarce back a month from his first Convocation, was getting ready to ride out again on his first yearly border ride. And Whipstick had ridden out that morning to the forge.

  She stopped outside Tdor’s chamber, regret so intense she trembled.

  Women’s voices came from the workroom, where Dannor Tya-Vayir had organized the tapestry project. Fareas paused, fingers gripping her elbows. She felt uneasy around Dannor, though she could not define why. She knew the girls had never liked her, but Dannor had been the perfect guest since the wedding: first awake in the mornings, first to drill, and she had the eye of an artist. The tapestry would be as good as anything they could have ordered from Sartor back in more affluent days, and it would mean more, woven by their own hands on a loom they built themselves with wood taken from furniture donated from every castle family.

  People change, Fareas thought as she looked across the room at the tapestry design on the wall, Inda so carefully sketched by Dannor (after plenty of advice from everyone) that even inexperienced hands at the weft would not blur those wide brown eyes. Some change for the better. Some for the worse. Until the day comes when the last breath goes out and there is the greatest change of all.

  Feeling like some other woman controlled her body, Fareas walked into the workroom, where she discovered a volunteer crew of off-duty guardswomen stationed along the loom. Under Dannor’s direction they endeavored to hold the sturdy linen warp yarn steady as they slowly rolled it onto the top of the warp beam.