‘I yield, I yield!’ he gasped beneath her. She swung her leg off him and dropped to the floor on her back beside him. They lay together for a while in silence, breathing hard.
‘Wow,’ Penn said finally. ‘You really don’t want to get married, do you?’
Ree shook her head silently. She was trembling all over, now, hit by the cold aftermath of violence. Though her anger was gone, she almost wished it wasn’t; the depression it had left behind was harder to shake off.
‘Huh,’ Penn said, and she frowned up at the ceiling.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It’s just, I always assumed all girls dreamed of marriage.’
She turned her head to say something blistering, only to find him looking back at her with a smile in his eyes: he was teasing her. It was such a rare event that it eased the chill in her stomach, a little.
Of course, three years ago he’d probably believed it – but why point that out? If Penn had become more open-minded over his years in the fifth ring, Ree thought she herself had probably learned the value of tact.
‘What do you think I should do?’ she asked instead. His lips tightened as if he doubted the value of his own advice, but he gave it anyway.
‘Tell them you won’t do it. If they disown you, that’s their choice. Parents who can’t accept you for who you are aren’t worth having as parents anyway.’
He was thinking of his own parents as much as hers, Ree knew. After he’d failed to take his family’s revenge on Captain Caraway three years ago – and worse, stayed to train as a Helmsman under Caraway’s captaincy – Penn’s father had cut all ties with him. Penn’s younger brothers were forbidden even to mention his name. Ree had got that much out of him when they were on night duty together; there was something about the time between midnight and dawn that encouraged that kind of confidence. But he hadn’t mentioned it again since, and she hadn’t asked. The pair of them upheld a silent agreement that some things were best left unspoken.
Still, Penn was right: her parents didn’t deserve her obedience. She was a grown woman, and if she didn’t want to get married, they couldn’t make her. Admittedly, the families of wealthy investors – and of not-so-wealthy merchants trying to better themselves – had different expectations for their daughters than the ordinary working families here in the city. And also admittedly, it wasn’t that long ago that the patriarchs of said wealthy families had thought it acceptable to contract their offspring to each other without consulting anything so trivial as anyone’s feelings on the matter. But Ree’s parents were thoughtless, not heartless; she couldn’t believe they’d do that to her. Besides, one thing she knew for certain was that she had the right to ask the overlord of Darkhaven to intercede in any dispute. Indeed, the overlord of Darkhaven was the law. And Ree really couldn’t imagine Ayla forcing any girl to get married against her will, let alone one of her own Helmsmen.
No, there was no chance that Ree might be forced into marriage. It was her parents’ obtuseness that had made her angry, not the fear they might prevail.
‘Thanks, Penn,’ she said softly.
‘You’re welcome.’ He sounded uncertain, as though he wasn’t sure she meant it – but before she could say anything else, he sat up and groaned. ‘I ache all over.’
‘Me too.’
‘And we have training tomorrow.’
‘Yeah.’ She grimaced. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s all right. I still don’t sleep much.’ That was another thing he’d told her, in the depths of a long night: he’d first started having trouble sleeping three years ago, when he’d come to the fifth ring with revenge in mind, and somehow that had never gone away. She’d asked him what kept him awake, and he’d said vaguely, Fear, I suppose. My own thoughts. I don’t know.
‘Reckon they’ve got any spare beds in the barracks?’ she suggested.
‘Worth a try.’
‘C’mon, then.’ She forced herself to her feet, before holding out a hand to pull him up after her. ‘Let’s find out. And Penn … thank you. Really.’
‘It’s fine, Ree. You can beat me up any time.’
Resting her head against his shoulder, she smiled. ‘I’ll hold you to that.’
THREE
Caraway woke with the dawn, despite the fact that for once there was neither an urgent message waiting for him nor a training session to get to, nor – which happened most commonly – a small voice calling his name. Ayla was still asleep, head on his shoulder and one leg tangled with his. Strands of her rosemary-scented hair tickled his cheek. She’d kept it at chin length ever since she was forced to cut it for disguise, six years ago. It’s far more practical, she’d told him. With all the Changing, long hair just makes me look like I was dragged through a hedge. And besides – with the glint of a mischievous smile – it reminds me that once, you sold my hair to buy me a wig.
Caraway wasn’t sure why she’d want to be reminded of that, given how much she’d despised him at the time. She seemed to view their entire past history through the rosy glass of retrospect, turning every one of their prickly initial interactions into something warm and inevitable. It was much like the stories that were still told down in the lower rings about him, the ones that took a kernel of truth and wrapped it in layers of daydream and wishful thinking until he became a symbol, not a real person. Tomas Caraway, the city’s hero. After six years, he had grown used enough to those stories to accept them with a smile. Easy enough to see heroism, looking back on it. Easy enough to see romance, too. But that was only because, of all the myriad possible paths he and Ayla could have taken – paths along which he drank himself to death, or failed to rescue her from incarceration, or said and did slightly different things that meant the two of them grew into mutual dislike, instead of love – of all those paths, he’d been lucky enough to stumble across the one where everything turned out for the best.
He suspected that was why so many people liked those heroic, romantic tales: it allowed them to believe in fate, the idea that things happened for a reason and the people with the best intentions always won out in the end. The truth was, luck played a far greater part in every single aspect of life than most people cared to admit.
But I know it. He drew Ayla closer in against him, kissing the top of her head. I’ve been lucky. And I’m grateful for it, every single day.
‘Are the children up?’ she mumbled. Interpreting that through long experience as Go away and let me get more sleep, Caraway disentangled himself and slid out of bed. She promptly shifted further over into the warm hollow left by his body. He didn’t think her more than half awake, but just as he got his arms into the sleeves of his dressing gown, she said softly, ‘I love you.’
Smiling in a way that would have earned some well-deserved backchat from the Helm, if they’d seen it, he pulled the cord of the dressing gown tight and left the room. Dressing gown: now there was an odd invention, a piece of clothing designed specifically to put off the necessity of getting dressed. He’d never even thought to own one before he came to live in Darkhaven. You got up, you washed, you put on your clothes, and that was the end of it. Yet Ayla possessed seven of the damn things, as beautifully made and decorated as any of her daytime outfits. And over time, she’d managed to inveigle him into one. It had embroidery on it, and gold edging. Why did something that no-one else was ever going to see need to be edged with gold?
Admittedly, it was very comfortable. And it looked nice. He’d probably spend the whole day in it if he thought he could get away with it. But he wasn’t going to tell Ayla that.
He poked his head round the door of Marlon’s room, but his adopted son was a light sleeper and so Caraway didn’t venture too close for fear of waking him. Instead, he stole down the corridor to the nursery, where his daughters were both still curled up under the covers. A strand of night-dark hair was plastered to Katya’s cheek; he pushed it gently back from her face, and she mumbled something. Already, at not quite three years old, she looked a lot like
Ayla. There was no denying her heritage. Whereas Wyrenne … Caraway stepped softly away from Katya’s bed to gaze down into Wyrenne’s cot. His younger daughter’s loose brown curls stuck up on her head, and one thumb was planted firmly in her mouth. She didn’t look like a Nightshade at all. She looked like him.
That had come as a surprise to Ayla, Caraway knew. This was the first generation without any full-blooded Nightshades, meaning that no-one could have predicted the outcome – and indeed, the outcome was still far from known, until the children turned fourteen and began to manifest their own Changer gifts or lack thereof. But Marlon looked like a Nightshade, despite his birth mother’s red hair and freckles, and Katya might as well be a miniature of Ayla herself, all raven-black hair and pale skin, even down to the faint hint of turquoise in her midnight-blue eyes that was the only visible legacy of Ayla’s common-born mother. Between the two of them, they’d probably convinced Ayla that Nightshade blood was not so easily diluted. So the arrival of a brown-skinned, tousle-haired baby had startled her, a little. She loved Wyrenne with fierce intensity, but Caraway knew the old doubts still played in her mind: would any of these children turn out to be Changers? What would happen when they grew up and married outside the family, and the amount of Nightshade blood in their own children’s veins was halved again? She didn’t speak of it often, but the demise of the Nightshade line was an ever-present concern.
It’s what I wanted, she’d told Caraway once. It’s not as if much hope lay ahead for the family anyway, with only Myrren and me to continue it. We’d reached the end of the road. I just wish I could find a way to ensure the gift’s survival. Because without it, what will Mirrorvale become?
Caraway didn’t know the answer to that question. He wouldn’t be where he was if he could envisage a future for Mirrorvale that was independent of Darkhaven and its Changers. But as far as he could see, there wasn’t any point worrying about it. Either the Nightshade gift would endure, or it wouldn’t – and as long as Ayla and the children were safe, it didn’t really matter which. Lord Florentyn and Owen Travers would have had his head for that attitude; but Ayla’s father and his Captain of the Helm had always put the survival of the Nightshade line above the welfare of the people in it, whereas to Caraway himself it seemed obvious that it should be the other way round.
That, among other reasons, was why he and Ayla would never have another child. Giving birth to Wyrenne had nearly killed Ayla; once she’d recovered, the physician had warned her against bearing any more children, and given her a medicinal supplement that would prevent it. Perhaps once she would have fought against the advice – insisted that it didn’t matter, that it was worth bringing as many Nightshades into the world as possible, even if it put her own life in danger. Her father would certainly have taken that position on her behalf. But Ayla had learned hard lessons from the constant threat of assassination, and one of them was that she had to stay alive, no matter what it cost her in other freedoms. As the only Changer in Mirrorvale, she was too important to do otherwise.
I’m sorry, Tomas, she’d said when she told him the news – tears running silently down her face. I’m so sorry.
It’s not your fault.
I could ask the physician again if there’s any way –
No, Ayla. He’d taken her hands. I’m glad the physician made the decision he made.
Why?
He’d hesitated, unsure if his words would help, but he had to be honest. Because if he hadn’t, I would have had to tell you myself that I don’t want any more children. I can’t live with the possibility that giving birth to my baby might kill you.
She’d bowed her head. I don’t know what to do, Tomas. I feel so broken.
Dearest love. You’re not broken. It might feel that way now, but you’re not. He’d dropped to his knees beside her, willing her to look at him. We have each other, when I thought for a time I was going to lose you. We have our three wonderful children. And that’s enough. More than enough. I can’t run the risk of losing you again.
A tear had fallen on his face, then another. You won’t lose me. I promise.
Of course, it had taken far more than that one conversation to heal Ayla’s grief. He wasn’t even sure that it had fully healed now. Wyrenne had only just turned one year old; the wound was still raw. Yet he had told the truth: what they had was enough. Whether it was enough for the survival of the Nightshade line, he didn’t know. But it was enough for the people in it.
I love you, Kati. He backed away from the children’s beds, noiselessly, so as not to wake them. I love you, Wren.
‘Are they all right?’ someone whispered, and he turned to see Ayla in the doorway. He held out a hand to draw her closer to his side.
‘They’re fine. Although this never happens.’
‘What?’
‘Both of us awake before either of them.’ He and Ayla had always been early risers, through simple necessity, but an adult’s definition of early wasn’t anything like the same as a baby’s. Wyrenne regularly woke before first bell.
‘They were up in the night. I heard Cathrin trying to settle them.’ Yawning, Ayla rested her head against his shoulder. ‘Do you like this?’
‘Like what?’
‘Being an old married man with three children.’
‘I object to the old,’ Caraway said mildly. ‘But as for the rest of it, I’ve never been happier.’
‘Is it the lack of time to yourself you like most, or the constant exhaustion?’
He glanced down at her. She tipped her head back to return his gaze, a teasing expression in her eyes.
‘Neither,’ he said softly. ‘Both. Happiness isn’t a whole emotion, is it? It’s a thousand little moments.’
They looked at each other without speaking. Slowly he lifted a hand to stroke her cheek, and felt her shiver beneath his touch.
‘This is happiness.’ He ducked his head to brush her lips with his. ‘And this.’
Her body yielded against his, all softness. She didn’t feel any more than human. Holding her like this, it was easy to forget that her slight form contained a power that could tear him apart, if she let it.
‘It’s still early,’ he murmured. ‘Want to pick up where we left off last night?’
Her teeth grazed his neck – and then she startled back, turning in the direction of the door. A moment later, he caught it: the sound of running footsteps, heading their way.
Automatically he put Ayla behind him, reaching for a weapon. He might be wearing a dressing gown, but there was a knife in the pocket. There was always a knife in the pocket.
‘Stay here,’ he said, but of course she didn’t. The two of them spilled out into the corridor together, in time to intercept a clearly distressed Helmsman. Vane, one of the younger ones, his fair skin flushed red.
‘Captain Caraway – Lady Ayla – I –’
‘Get a grip, son,’ Caraway said. Vane straightened, making a creditable effort to suppress his ragged gasps. He must have run hard, to be that winded. It must be something urgent …
‘Sir, it’s the Kardise ambassador. He’s dead.’
From within the nursery, Wyrenne began to cry.
Two of the Kardise were waiting in Tolino’s bedroom when Caraway and Ayla arrived. One of the Helm had also fetched Darkhaven’s current physician, but it was easy to see at a glance that there was nothing he could do. The ambassador lay on the bed, flat on his back, sightless eyes staring up at the ceiling; his face was greyish, his lips tinged blue.
‘What happened?’ Ayla took a step forward. The two Kardise shifted subtly, moving shoulder to shoulder as if to support each other. One of them was Giorgi, the ambassador’s bodyguard; the other, Caraway wasn’t sure of.
‘I found him this morning,’ Giorgi said in his heavily accented Mirrorvalese. ‘Resca and I guarded his door in shifts. The whole night passed without a sound. But this morning, he was cold in his bed.’
‘Had he been ill?’
‘No.’
&nbs
p; ‘And there are no signs of any injury?’
‘None. As far as we are able to determine, he died in his sleep.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ayla said. She was clearly upset; her gaze kept sliding towards Tolino’s body as though she couldn’t quite keep it away. She had liked the man on a personal level, that much had been clear. And she’d been so optimistic about the peace treaty, last night … Still, she was too well trained to let her own shock and dismay overcome her. ‘What a horrible thing to have happened. Do you think it was his heart, or …?’
The two Kardise exchanged glances. ‘Perhaps. That is yet to be determined.’
‘Of course.’ Ayla turned to the physician. ‘Gil, I want you to examine the body straight away and determine the cause of death.’
Caraway caught the convulsive movement of Gil’s throat. He was a relatively young man, and new to the role, but he had the distinction of having saved Ayla’s life after her near-fatal second labour. At the time, he’d been one of several candidates the previous physician was considering as his eventual replacement, but when everything had gone suddenly and horribly wrong it was Gil, and not his predecessor, who had worked out how to reduce the fever and stop the bleeding. After that, it was perhaps inevitable that the old physician would step down. Ayla had begged him to stay longer – he was, after all, the greatest living expert in Nightshade children and their unique ways – but he’d refused. I failed you, Lady Ayla, he’d told her. My hands and brain are slower than they used to be. I can’t put your growing children at risk. And so, since Gil had so ably proved himself, the old physician had selected him as his successor and trained him for a year, before leaving him to take over the role of Darkhaven’s medical expert.
Right now, it was clear Gil wished he didn’t have that honour.
With a nervous glance at Ayla, he moved towards the bed – but the two Kardise stepped forward to block his path.
‘I’m sorry, Lady Ayla,’ Giorgi said. ‘But we cannot allow that.’
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