“What does that mean?” I asked.
Avrell leaned back from the railing, folding his rank as First around him like a cloak. “Probably nothing more than that he wanted to greet us. Westen did forewarn him of our arrival, and he’s never seen a Mistress outside of Amenkor.”
But there was a hint of uncertainty in Avrell’s voice, a crease forming in his brow as he spoke.
It took another twenty minutes to dock, the sun now low on the horizon. At Avrell’s suggestion, I’d gathered an escort around me, composed of Keven and his chosen guardsmen, Avrell, Heddan, and Gwenn. I’d sent Marielle and Trielle to guard Ottul, relieving the other two girls. Both fidgeted nervously until Avrell reprimanded them with a curt word. After that, they tried to remain poised and respectful; only Heddan, the older of the two, was somewhat successful.
Bullick descended the plank first, accompanied by William dressed in his merchant’s jacket, both speaking to the harbormaster before bowing at the waist before Lord Justaen, the words spoken lost to distance and the gusts from the ocean.
Then the two of them stepped to one side and Avrell descended to the dock. Keven nudged me to follow, moving up close behind me.
I suddenly wanted the familiar confines of Amenkor, wanted the back streets and alleys of the lower city, the halls and corridors of the palace, the crumbling narrows of the Dredge and the fish-gut smell of the wharf. I’d even take the uncomfortable reverence of the people as they sketched the Skewed Throne symbol on their chests and bowed as I passed them in the streets.
“Lord Justaen Pyre of Temall,” Avrell said as he halted before the Lord’s entourage. He did not acknowledge Westen or any of the men from Amenkor. “May I present the Mistress of Amenkor.”
Outwardly, Lord Justaen didn’t react at all, merely shifting his stance so that he could nod his head slightly. But on the river—
On the river, he gave a start of surprise as I stepped forward, a twitch of the currents, nothing more. He smelled of worry, of fear and wariness, like the smell of the air before a storm, wet and dangerous, none of which showed in his bearded face.
But he was gray. Not a danger to me personally. Not a threat.
“Mistress, I welcome you to Temall,” he said, in the same calm but grating voice I remembered hearing through Westen’s ears. “You are . . . not what I expected.”
I wondered what he had almost said, but nodded in return. “Thank you.”
His eyebrows rose at that. “As soon as we are joined by Captain Tristan and his guests,” he said, motioning to where the Reliant was already tying up at the wharf, “we can head up to the keep. I’ve had a meal prepared.”
“During which we can discuss the Chorl,” I said.
Avrell frowned, but Justaen only nodded as if that were obvious. As the First continued the introductions, I glanced toward Westen, saw him shake his head minutely. I didn’t understand what the gesture meant, thought about Reaching to ask, but realized I couldn’t. If I did, I’d collapse on the docks, which would draw more attention than I, or Avrell, wanted.
So I settled back to wait, trying not to fidget like Gwenn, trying not to look at William even though I felt his eyes on me more than once, wondering what Keven had told him. The two Chorl ships remained in the harbor, not drawing up to the dock, but a small boat was sent out and a few of the guardsmen ferried over to join us, including Captain Catrell.
And then Tristan arrived, Brandan Vard in tow, and I felt the tension on the river escalate. Brandan kept his attention focused on Justaen, not once looking toward me
Tristan kept close to Brandan’s side, as Avrell did to mine, his presence felt, watchful but silent, like a sentinel.
Lord Justaen led the group up through the gates of the outer wall and into the keep. Made of coarse granite, half again the size of the palace in Amenkor, it felt vaguely familiar until I realized why: this is what the palace in Amenkor had once been like. I’d felt this granite beneath my hand when I’d snuck into the walls and found the archer’s niche that led to the inner chambers, had felt its grittiness as I scraped and squeezed my way through it to reach the throne room. This stone had been used on the original walls, walls that had been subsumed into the structure as the palace in Amenkor grew in size. In fact, all of the inner chambers had been constructed using the same stone—the Mistress’ chambers, the throne room, the tower.
Temall’s keep had the same general layout, but when we entered what I expected to be the throne room, I found instead a great hall lined with tables and benches for feasting, thick tapestries hung on all of the walls, banners hung from the pillars to either side. On the dais, instead of a throne, was a single large table, chairs on the side facing the room. Justaen led Avrell, Tristan, Brandan, Bullick, William, and me to the head table, the rest of the guardsmen and Servants taking seats on the benches throughout the room. Keven, Catrell, and Westen sat as close to my position as possible, Westen keeping watch over Heddan and Gwenn.
Seated between Justaen and Avrell, Tristan and Brandan on Justaen’s far side, I felt lost, overwhelmed, and daunted. I’d never eaten in such a large room, among so many other people, and found my hand resting on my dagger for reassurance.
Avrell leaned over as soon as we were settled and said, “Eat first. Don’t question him about the Chorl until afterward. Be careful with the wine. You aren’t used to it. And try not to touch your dagger. It’s not . . . polite.”
Before I could respond, Justaen rang a large hand bell on the table before him and suddenly the room was full of servants carrying large platters of food and pitchers of water and ale and wine. A woman not much older than me with hair tied back behind her head set a trencher before me, the heavy scent of smoked meat and spices assaulting my nose. Loaded with bread and cheese, the meat in a thick sauce surrounded with roasted vegetables, my stomach growling after over a week of mostly dry biscuits on the ship, I reached for a slice of bread and the butter, but felt Avrell’s hand on my arm.
“Wait,” he said, and his gaze flicked toward Justaen.
The Lord of Temall had not touched any of his food. Neither had anyone else in the room. He waited until everyone had been served, drinks poured, then he raised his flagon of wine and said, “To the visitors from Venitte and Amenkor,” taking a sip.
Everyone in the room raised their own cup and drank; a murmur that could have been agreement but sounded mostly like grunts ran through the room.
Then Justaen set down his glass. That seemed to be the signal to eat, for everyone dug in, the roar of conversation filling the hall, worse than a tavern.
“Eat,” Justaen said, motioning toward my platter even as he reached for a strip of meat for himself. “We’ll have much to discuss afterward, but for now, enjoy.”
I slathered a chunk of warm bread with butter, Justaen grunting as I bit into it.
I almost spit it out, choking, but managed to chew and swallow, coughing slightly. “It’s not butter. It tastes different.”
“It’s apple butter,” Tristan said from Justaen’s far side.
I frowned down at the bread, then tried another bite, this time actually tasting it. Justaen watched closely, a dribble of the meat sauce staining his beard. I hadn’t realized there were different kinds of butter, but now I could taste the flavor of the apples, sweet and yet tart, the texture a little different as well, creamier.
“I like it,” I said.
Justaen smiled. “I’ll make certain you have some for your ship,” he said, then he raised his cup, sipped, and turned toward Tristan.
I glanced toward Avrell, who gave me a reassuring nod.
The meat was spicy, the sauce too biting by itself. I had to cut the spice by eating it with bread, leaving most of the sauce on the platter. I took careful sips of the wine, more used to water and tea, but still felt its effects by the time the meal had wound down. Justaen talked with everyone at the table at some point, but about nothing important—the voyage down from Amenkor, the storm, the latest trends in Venitte.
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By the time Justaen pushed his chair back, the room falling silent gradually around us, night had fallen and my patience had worn thin. I felt anxious, my legs twitching beneath the table, my hand falling unconsciously to the handle of my dagger again before I realized and jerked it away. Avrell had resorted to shooting me occasional warning glances, which I ignored.
“If you would care to accompany me,” Justaen said.
I stood without responding, everyone else at the main table following suit. We were joined by Keven, Westen, and Catrell, and a few guardsmen from Venitte as we were led to an antechamber off of the main hall.
Without preamble, settling himself into a chair behind a large desk, Justaen said, “What is it that you want?”
I felt myself stiffen at his tone, felt a subtle shift in the room as the guardsmen from Amenkor tensed. Without looking, I knew that a frown touched Avrell’s face.
There were no other chairs in the room, only small tables with books and papers, casements with statues, a glittering dagger, a large tapestry taking up an entire wall. Nothing rested on his desk but a quill and bottle of ink.
And a sword. Long and straight, sheathed and resting flat at the edge of the desk.
Aware that Tristan and Brandan were standing beside me, I felt myself loosen, my stance altering slightly into a position that I knew Westen would recognize. A guarded position, ready but wary, as if I faced an unknown foe. “I want to know your intentions regarding the Chorl.”
“My intentions,” Justaen rumbled.
I frowned. “They’ve invaded the coast, taken over Bosun’s Bay, a few days travel from here. They’ve already attacked Amenkor, are now, according to you, heading toward Venitte. What do you intend to do about it?”
Justaen said nothing for a long moment, his eyes on me. I slid beneath the river, felt the surge of emotions on the currents, tasted intense interest from Tristan, turmoil from both Brandan and William, a measure of hatred as well. From Westen, I got a strong sense of warning, and from Justaen—
I drew in a sharp breath.
Anger and resentment, mixed with indecision, with doubt.
The roil lay heavy and thick, dense against my skin. I shifted beneath it, realized that he was now a mixed gray and red, where he’d been only gray before.
A possible danger. An undecided danger.
“Who are you to ask me?” he said.
“She’s the Mistress of Amenkor,” Avrell said in outrage.
“Is she?” Justaen spat, standing abruptly, one hand steepled on his desk. “The Mistress has always been the one who controlled the Skewed Throne, and from all accounts I’ve heard of what happened this past winter, the Skewed Throne has been destroyed. What is she the Mistress of now? What is it that she controls?”
Avrell stepped forward, but I halted him with a sharp, “No!”
Livid, Avrell backed down. I could feel the outrage from Keven and Catrell as well, even William. Only Westen seemed unaffected, as if he had expected this.
I settled a heated glare on Justaen, found my hand resting on the hilt of my dagger and left it there. “I am the Mistress of Amenkor.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tristan nod, felt him straighten.
Lord Justaen of Temall did not flinch, did not react at all.
“So it was you who sent the Seekers into my lands without permission,” he said, his voice as deadly and as plain as mine.
“I sent them because we thought the Chorl had already taken Temall. We thought the Chorl were heading back to Amenkor.”
“And did you send the Band as well?”
“No.”
“They fight under the banner of the Skewed Throne. They are led by men that your Seeker,” he motioned toward Westen, “tells me were once guardsmen of Amenkor.”
“Yes. The leader of the Band is named Baill. He was once captain of the palace guard in Amenkor.”
“But no longer?”
“No.” I shook my head. “He betrayed us to the Chorl.”
Justaen’s face was suffused with doubt. “Then why is he here now, fighting against them? Why does he use the Skewed Throne as his call to battle?”
I shook my head again. “I don’t know.”
His eyes narrowed. He wanted to believe me, wanted to trust me. . . .
“No,” he finally said. “Take your Seekers and go.”
“But the Chorl—” Avrell began.
Justaen cut him off. “Temall will handle the Chorl on our own. We’ve managed to defend against them so far.”
“Because you haven’t seen their main force,” I said. “Because at the moment they are only interested in your food, your resources. If they come . . . No. When they come, you won’t be able to stand against them. If they seize Venitte, there will be no stopping them.”
Justaen didn’t respond.
Tristan stepped forward into the silence. “You will not help us defend Venitte?”
Justaen hesitated at his formal tone. “My duty lies in protecting Temall.”
Tristan nodded. Motioning to Brandan and his guardsmen, he moved toward the door.
Avrell stepped up behind me, his intention to leave obvious.
“You will not survive,” I said.
Justaen merely frowned.
“Come,” Avrell said quietly. “He’s made his decision.”
I held Justaen’s gaze a moment longer, then spun, letting Keven, Catrell, and Westen lead me through the door into the hall beyond. William followed close behind.
“Don’t you have guild business to conduct with Lord Justaen? With his merchants?” Avrell asked as we headed down the hall, toward the main gates and the port below.
“I have no business here,” William said curtly, and I could hear the lie in his voice, realized he was cutting those ties because of Justaen’s insult to me.
“I tried to warn you at the docks,” Westen said. “But we were never given the chance to talk.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, anger like heat inside my chest. “But I don’t understand. Can’t he see the threat the Chorl represent?”
Catrell shook his head. “He thinks that if he presents no threat to them himself, the Chorl will leave him alone.”
“Then he’s blind as well as stupid,” I spat.
“I agree,” Avrell said darkly, “but there’s nothing more we can do about it now.”
We collected the rest of the Amenkor and Venittian guardsmen in the main hall, along with Heddan and Gwenn, both Servants’ eyes going wide as they picked up on the tension in the group on the river, both suddenly quiet and formal. Within twenty minutes we were outside the gates of Temall, the Venittian group distancing themselves from us.
At the docks, the two groups split up.
Before breaking away, Tristan caught my attention, his gaze black. At his side, Brandan looked angry and concerned.
“You’ve cost Venitte an ally,” the captain of the Reliant said, and then he turned and headed toward his ship.
At my side, Avrell drew in a deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh.
“That,” he said, “was not an auspicious start.”
Chapter 8
I t’s not an auspicious start, Eryn said, her voice grim through the White Fire at her core. Not only have you lost the support of Temall against the Chorl, you’ve isolated Tristan. And I think it’s obvious now that he’s more than just captain of the Reliant.
I felt a surge of resentment, tried to suppress it. Perhaps you should have come instead of me.
No, Eryn said quickly. It had to be you. Temall may have accepted me more readily, and I may have been able to gain some type of concession from him, but those in Venitte would not.
She seemed to sense that I was not consoled. You did fine, Varis.
I sent the Seekers along with the scouting party.
And everyone agreed with you. We thought the Chorl army had headed north. We thought Temall had already been taken. Perhaps we could have had Westen petition for perm
ission, but that would have required exposing the ship to the port, and if the Chorl had already seized control . . .
I heard the truth of what Eryn said, but Justaen’s dismissal still rankled.
What about the Band? What about Baill?
Eryn hesitated. As she thought, pain radiated upward from her stomach. Not a seething, prickling pain, like Erick’s, but a slow, acidic heat. Occasionally, it would burn up into her throat, spilling over into her lungs, and the coughing fit that resulted would send daggers through her stomach muscles and her chest. I’d only been in contact with her during one such fit, and it had been enough to drive me behind the protective shield of the Fire.
I don’t know what to think about Baill and his Band, she finally said, placing a hand against her side. She sat in an alcove outside the training gardens. Rain poured down outside the arched opening in a sheet, the breeze cool against her face. Perhaps the Chorl betrayed him in return. But it doesn’t matter. At least he isn’t actively working against Amenkor.
At the moment.
Eryn winced at my tone. At the moment.
What about Amenkor?
Eryn shrugged. No sign of the Chorl. Darryn continues to train the militia and seems to have adjusted well to being captain of the entire guard, although he continues to emphasize that it’s temporary. The gates are finished, and we’ve begun work on the watchtowers, including placing the winch and chain across the inlet. The blacksmith, Hugh, is overseeing that, along with Nathem. The newest merchants have already broken land for the wall they intend to build around the city, but no stone has yet been laid. And Borund is moving along faster than expected on the ships . . . with the help of the Servants.
Here, an intense satisfaction coursed through her, overriding the momentary pain in her side.
What do you mean? I asked.
Eryn grinned. I went to Borund to ask if there was something that could be done to speed the process along. He didn’t see how, but when I pressed him, we figured out a way that the Servants can help treat the wood to make it stronger using the Sight. They can also help with the shaping of the wood, both for the frame and applying the strakes to the frame. It’s cut that part of the construction phase down by half. And Borund thinks that because of the increase in the strength of the wood, he may eventually be able to build bigger ships, ones with larger holds so that they can carry more cargo.
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