by Ellyn, Court
“Look at you,” Carah said. “I can’t talk to you like this.”
Kethlyn snorted. “Don’t bother. It’s done. Mum and Da promised it all to you, didn’t they. Put an end to our disgraceful spawn and win it all. Hnh, of course they did. Duke of Ilswythe.”
One swift step brought Carah across the floor. Her palm cracked across his cheek before he saw it falling. “How dare you!” she shouted. “You think your own family is as depraved as Valryk? I only wish I could put a bolt of fire through you for the agony you’ve caused Mum and Da. But I’m a coward. I’ve come to plead with you instead.”
Kethlyn blinked heavily at her, at Uncle Thorn who turned away in disgust. They hadn’t come to kill him? The truth took a long while to sink in. “Plead? Plead all you want, it changes nothing.”
Carah knelt at his knee, the skirt of her robe blooming out like a raincloud. A raindrop shed from her eye.
Kethlyn squirmed back in the chair, discomfited by this display of … affection? They despised one another. There had never been anything but enmity, competition, scorn between them.
“I know, and I’m sorry,” she said. Had she read his thoughts? The avedra robe wasn’t merely for show then? “I understand if you can’t abide me. If you want me to go. But please, give me a chance.”
Give you a chance? A sob broke from his throat, unexpected, like stone shattering, and he leaned forward to take her face in his hands and pressed his forehead to hers, unutterably grateful that she had come. Her presence was as singular and vital as a lighthouse in the fog. Don’t leave me in the dark.
“I won’t leave you. I’m here. I’m here.”
Farns delivered strong spiced tea. All too slowly Kethlyn’s head steadied. The silverthorn did little good. He reached for a bottle of sintha to spike the tea, but Carah plucked it from his hand.
Against his wishes, she opened the windows to freshen the suite with a balmy ocean breeze, then returned to the parlor and poured tea for herself. But not for Thorn. “Would you wait outside, please?”
He pushed himself from the wall and followed Farns out. “If you lose your temper, love, don’t burn down the place, eh?” The door snicked shut.
Carah neither giggled nor guffawed at the comment, but serenely, soberly added a dollop of milk to her tea. Uncle Thorn wasn’t being facetious? His sister, his spoiled bratty sister wielding the power of fire in her hands? A terrifying notion. “Hnh. I see your beloved uncle ran home to you at last. Well, well, little avedra. Better than the rest of us after all.”
“Must you be nasty? I’m sorry for rubbing it in your face all our lives. But you were the princeling, the one Mum took with her every winter. I got left behind.” She shrugged. “I was always afraid I wouldn’t measure up.”
Kethlyn had to laugh at that, though laughing sent shards of glass into his brain. Ironic, discovering that their mutual spite was birthed from the same fear. And how odd, finding that his sister had the maturity to own it, to articulate it. Kethlyn regretted his malicious jab. Old habits, after all.
“So? Tell me what the hell you want.”
“I came to ask you…” Carah took a deep breath; it trembled in her throat. She gazed at him squarely. “Why? Why did you do it? Why did you give us over to slaughter at Valryk’s table?”
She might as well have reached into his chest and torn his heart out. The pain of it was so sudden that he couldn’t draw breath. “Oh, Goddess. Mother, help me. You were there?” It had never occurred to him to worry about Carah, that she too might lay among the dead. He’d worried only about Mum. Because Mum was the path to everything he had thought he wanted. Was anyone in all the world as selfish as he?
Heartbreak eased across Carah’s face. “You knew what he would do to us?”
“I swear to you I didn’t!” Kethlyn dived onto his knees beside her chair. How long had he needed to explain? But beg as he might, Carah had no reason to believe him. “Search my thoughts if you must! You and Mum and Da were to come live here. I had your rooms prepared!” How deep Valryk’s lies went. No wonder Kethlyn had believed whatever the Black Falcon told him.
Carah searched his face, desperate to understand the part he had played.
Maybe this would help. “Did you know I was almost a year old before Mum saw fit to give me a name?”
Carah winced. “She told me.”
“And you remember our nanny?”
“Lady Grieva?”
Kethlyn had loved her and feared her and believed every word she spoke as though it were etched in stone, because she had never given him reason not to. “Not long before she left us, she let it slip. She said I was a fortunate boy. ‘Why,’ I asked. ‘Because your father returned to claim you,’ she said. She never realized, I think, what that did to me. It might’ve been different if Mum or Da had told me, but they never spoke of it, so I knew it shamed them. I was the cause of shame. Everything lost its certainty. It was if everything was a lie. Even their love for me.”
“Oh, Kethlyn, no—”
“Valryk found out. I don’t know how. I certainly didn’t tell him. He made me believe that if I displeased him he would make it official, announce it to the world. My bastardy. Take everything away and give it to you.”
Carah nearly threw aside her teacup in her haste to grab onto his shirtsleeves. “He blackmailed you into cooperating?”
Kethlyn delved back through memory blurred by wine, by seething regret. “I’m not sure.”
“How can you not be sure?”
“Would I have helped him anyway, even if he hadn’t said a word about my … origin? I think so. He was my king. He made me feel irreplaceable when he wanted to replace everyone else.”
“But he did take that step, Kethlyn! He milked your fear for all it was worth.”
He nodded. “Yes. I sold myself to him, in exchange for this.” From inside his shirt he took the decree naming him Duke of Liraness. The parchment was worn and soiled. How often had he perused its words to reassure himself of its promise?
Carah took the document and glanced over it, mouth open in disbelief.
“With that, Valryk papered over every lie. It never meant anything. Mum was supposed to die that day, along with you and Da. That was to be my guarantee. Not that slip of paper. He bought my silence with a signature. How do I live with that?”
Carah waved the parchment wildly. “You have to show this to Mum.”
Kethlyn shoved himself to his feet and tore the document from her fingers. “This is what will see my head in a basket!”
“Listen to me! You still have a chance. You must come back with me, without delay. Ride at the head of Mother’s army and present it to Da on the field.”
Kethlyn backed away on liquor-clumsy legs. “How stupid are you? You’re asking me to ride to my own execution.”
“Maybe so. Uncle Thorn’s right. There’s not a soul inside Tírandon who wouldn’t relish the chance to take a stab at you. But if they see you ride to their aid, you challenge all their convictions. You will have issued your apology. But most importantly, you will have stated loud and clear that you don’t stand with Valryk.”
Kethlyn leaned over the back of his chair, fingers digging into the upholstery, shaking his head fervidly, as if refusal would stay the axe.
Carah laid her hand over his knotted knuckles, and her voice was gentle. “Come back with me. If you don’t, you’re dead for sure.”
~~~~
17
Kethlyn was unable to leave his rooms for two days. He went into a rage when Carah told him that she had emptied his liquor cabinets and ordered the servants to pour out every drop. She herself had hidden the key to the wine cellar. Within hours of his last drink, he began to sweat and to pace. His hands shook, and he curled into a ball groaning that he was dying, that Carah was killing him. “Heartless bitch,” he cried. “One tumbler. To settle things down. Yes, curse you! I can’t even sleep. Listen to me!”
“No,” she said and locked him in. Furniture crashed again
st the door. Carah leaned against it and wept.
She gave the nod to Uncle Thorn, confirming Kethlyn’s decision to march south, whatever the consequences, and so Thorn rode across town to supervise the preparation of Windhaven’s army. Thanks to Lothiar himself, the duchess’s militias were already mustered and trained. They had only to be supplied for the journey.
Near the end of the second day, when Kethlyn was quiet, Carah left her post outside his door to stretch her legs and breathe the salt-rank air. She ventured onto the southwest tower to peer through the great brass spyglass. Across the roofs of the city, soldiers in red uniforms hustled about the barracks. Canvas tents lined the training grounds. She looked for Uncle Thorn, but he was likely sheltered somewhere out of the heat.
War galleons bobbed beyond the pier. Were the sailors swimming around the ships’ prows? No, it was the sleek backs of seals curving into the waves. It’s seals we’re kin to, Rhian had told her. Remembering made her heart pitch. Where are you? Swim away. Swim away and find me. It was a futile prayer. She reached for the fairy pendant with its blue Rávalin pearl, but it wasn’t there. Alyster still wore it. That made her smile.
Being of no use to Carah or to Thorn, Alyster had taken to exploring the city, its docks and markets. He complained of its size and its stink and its crowds, but it fascinated him nonetheless. “There’s a hall just for throwing dice! I won a fat coin purse. My own coin, look! But I had to fight two lads to leave with it. They weren’t quite as big as bogles and twice as daft.” He didn’t like the look of the sea or its taste. “Men who sail upon it are addled,” he proclaimed. If nothing else, reports of his exploits had kept Carah entertained as she lounged, hour after hour, outside Kethlyn’s door.
“Look what you’ve done.”
The voice startled her. She whirled from the spyglass and found Kethlyn standing beside her. The wind tugged at a blanket wrapped about his shoulders. He looked threadbare, but steady.
“How did you get out?”
“I picked the lock.” He grinned. “Stupidly easy. If assassins continue to trouble me, it’s something I’ll have to remedy. Chains or deadbolts or steel bars or something. May I?”
Carah stepped aside, surrendering the spyglass.
Kethlyn turned it toward the camps with his right hand; his left struggled to hold the blanket in place. The thick swaddling didn’t let him bend his fingers.
“I can heal that,” Carah said.
He quirked an eyebrow at her, dubious. “No thanks.” After a brief glance through the lens, he asked, “What do you mean you can heal it?”
Carah laughed. “You’ve a lot to catch up on.” She led him back to his rooms. While he sipped ginger tea to ease his queasy stomach, Carah unbound his ravaged hand and set to work mending severed muscle and bone.
“You’ll hold a shield yet,” she said, sitting back and patting her temples dry.
He tested the mobility of his fingers and prodded what would become a purple, inch-long scar amid his hand. “What else have I missed?”
They talked well into the evening. Carah was pleased with her powers to astonish.
“Fierans?” Kethlyn exclaimed. Was it a greater surprise that Aralorris shared a campground with their age-old enemies than with Elarion? “Lothiar assured me the White Falcon was dead.”
“Only for a short while.” Carah recalled the slender silver strand of light rising through night-cloaked trees, Arryk’s tremulous question, and the lie she had spoken to bring him back. If his savior had been anyone else, would he still have asked her to be his queen? “It … it would benefit you to befriend him. If he lets you. He’s a good man. If Valryk were anything like him, none of this would’ve happened.”
Kethlyn’s eyebrows rose. “You think that highly of him?”
Carah’s face heated, and damn, Kethlyn saw it and smirked.
A knock on the door saved her.
Thorn peered into the room. “You look better. May I join you?”
Kethlyn’s demeanor chilled instantly. After a moment, he extended a nod. “Is Commander Leng cooperating?”
“Indeed. Fine fellow. Knows his business.” Thorn fell into the nearest chair and grimaced as bones protested. He brought the scent of sun and horse sweat with him. “I’ll rejoice when you’re back on your feet and can handle your troops yourself. Exhausting. Hungry work, too. When does the supper gong ring?”
“What do you want?”
Kethlyn’s clear disdain for their uncle stung Carah. She had never understood it.
Thorn didn’t appear to notice. “I need to pick your brain. You spoke directly with Lothiar?”
Shame bit afresh, and Kethlyn lowered his eyes. “Yes.”
“Did he happen to mention where he is holding the avedrin?”
Carah’s heart leapt. Her uncle hadn’t given up on finding Rhian after all.
“Holding them?” Kethlyn shook his head, at a complete loss.
“Ah,” Carah said, “I forgot to mention that part.”
Thorn rubbed the back of his neck, groaned. “I’m talking about the people who have gone missing over the past several years. They were all avedrin.”
Interest piqued, Kethlyn sat forward in his chair. “Goddess’ mercy, were they? Lothiar is responsible for that too?”
Thorn sighed, disheartened. “I’m guessing that means you don’t know where he’s taken them.”
“Lothiar never mentioned anything about avedrin, not even in passing. He spoke with me briefly through some kind of magic window, and only then to give me orders. Despite what you may think of me, Uncle, it’s not as if he and I sat around chatting.”
“Did he hint to you of his plans?”
Flustered, Kethlyn pushed himself from his chair and paced. Was it guilt that drove him, or withdrawal symptoms returning? “Only that he seeks to bring a new order to the Northwest. But I’d wager you know that already.”
“What of Valryk?” Carah asked. “Is he alive or dead?”
Kethlyn shrugged elaborately. “I wish I knew. The last time I saw him—through that magic window—he looked terrible.” He spoke in a rush, hands fidgeting, needing a tumbler to hold and having none. He went to the liquor cabinet, but it had not magically replenished itself in the last few hours. “I don’t know if he was ill or underfed or if, Goddess help him, if Lothiar was torturing him, but he fought being Lothiar’s puppet long enough to beg me to come rescue him.” He went for the teapot, but it too was empty.
“Why didn’t you?” Carah asked.
He slammed down the teapot, aggression mounting again. “Rescue him? Once I learned he’d lied to me? He can rot, for all I care. Now, you tell me. Who’s the dark fellow skulking in the corridor?”
Carah’s stomach plummeted. “Er, Alyster?”
Thorn flicked a hand. “My apprentice, is all. He goes where I go.”
“Whoever he is, he makes me nervous. I like to know my guests. When I saw him this afternoon, I almost called the guard. Looks like he crept out of the slums.”
Thorn surged to his feet, disguising his unease poorly. “Shall we to supper?”
~~~~
Kethlyn knocked on the stranger’s door. Tense silence replied, then a hastened rustle during which Kethlyn hoped his uncle’s apprentice, who was noticeably a victim of poverty, wasn’t stashing away the silver candlesticks. He glanced over his shoulder. Farns waited on hand, a tray balanced on his fingers. The chamberlain appeared to hear nothing; neither did he own an opinion concerning this odd guest who kept the duke waiting in the corridor.
The door cracked open. For an instant, it was not a stranger’s face that peered out. But then it was.
Kethlyn’s breath caught. Did he dare admit to himself who this man favored? “Alyster, is it?”
The highlander nodded, frowning in suspicion.
“I have things for you.”
“Things? What things?”
Kethlyn nudged the door, hinting that he would no longer be relegated to the corridor. Alyster move
d aside and permitted the duke to enter.
With a quick glance, Kethlyn inspected the room. Nothing appeared to be out of place, but what would he know? He’d never been in this room before. Though a pair of worn-out boots sat beside the hearth, Alyster wore a belt from which hung two hatchets.
So that’s what he’d been doing? Arming himself? Seemed their distrust was mutual.
“I suppose you’re skilled with those,” Kethlyn said, gesturing at the axes. “I shall forgive you for wearing them in my presence. You must feel as if you’ve been tossed into a foreign sea.”
The highlander said nothing, but he had the grace to look embarrassed. Clean him up and he could be Carah’s twin. No wonder she and Thorn had neglected to introduce him.
“Apprentice, eh?” Kethlyn failed to rein in a scoffing chuckle. “One of Uncle Thorn’s by-blows most like. You look just like him.”
Kethlyn hoped for blurted confirmation or vehement denial. The highlander offered neither. He merely clenched his jaw and glowered murderously.
Disappointed, Kethlyn claimed the items from the tray and pushed them into Alyster’s hands. “Here, put these on. I think we’re of a size.” Farns had neatly folded a doublet of quilted silk, a linen undershirt, and butter-soft suede trousers. The chamberlain lowered a pair of eel-skin boots to the floor.
Alyster stared in wordless astonishment at the clothes stacked in his hands. His thumb moved over the silk, likely the finest thing he’d ever touched. Slowly, an expression akin to anger or defiance hardened his face. “I don’t want anything from you.” He extended the clothes.
Kethlyn didn’t accept them. “This is how we dress for supper. Inflicting blood-stained clothes on other diners is rude. So you may either eat with the horses, or wear that and dine at my table. And I’m not giving them to you. I want them back.” He started for the door, but the highlander was stubborn.
“I don’t know how to dine at a fine table. There’s too many forks.”
