“I know you want Dvara, Francois. With more time, I’d have given it to you. I just wish you’d waited. This costs me too much sway.”
“What do you want me to do to earn your aid? Name it. Anything.”
“Pull yourself together. You are the king of Mordoux.” She huffed. “Still, majesty, if you want me to name my price, a visit to your grandmama of your own accord would be nice. Some time spent talking of matters other than the resistance. I get lonely, living in the shadows and doing your bidding.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.” He sighed. “If I visit you more often, you’ll consider convincing the nobles the Dvaran alliance is good? No more fires?”
Fires? What the—
“Do you think I’d drive such an easy bargain? No boy, you must prove your love for me with a grander gesture.”
“Yes, Grandmama.”
“Have Malak double Carabelle’s dosage.”
“Grandmama?”
“You heard me. She’s reacting well enough so far, but I want all of Du Pont’s lies out of her head before I see her.”
“But this long-term exposure to ethirin is dangerous.” Frank’s voice cracked. “She’ll be addicted.”
“We can break an addiction. Or we can use it.”
Nita’s grip grew so tight Varda’s hand pulsed with the pressure.
“I—” Frank was quiet for a long time, and when he spoke again, it was with a note of defeat. “Yes, Grandmama.”
Varda gaped. Who was he? Francois of Mordoux, a manipulated boy, who knowingly drugged his sister? Maybe Dvara didn’t need to be allied with such a man. Vendla would declare war if she knew Frank’s true spirit.
“Meanwhile, I’ll let you put your plan in motion,” the spymaster said. “Defame Du Pont. Carabelle must hate him by the end of it. But be careful. You must keep him at arm’s length, and don’t allow him into the inner circle. Give him nothing. Don’t let him charm you.”
“Of course, Grandmama.”
“If you manage to pull this off, I’ll bargain for your Dvaran. Agreed?”
“Yes, Grandmama. Thank you.”
“You’ll still visit me, boy. That’s part of the deal. Now, what shall we have for dinner?”
The light disappeared, and Nita pulled Varda through the tunnel, back into the room from where they’d started. She was pale. Her fingers quivered as she replaced the panel to the opening. She lowered the tapestry, then double-checked that no traces of her tampering remained.
“That was interesting,” Varda said.
“I’ll kill her.” Sweat beaded Nita’s upper lip and nose.
“I can’t see why—she is a delight.”
Nita laughed and regained her colour. “Creator, I loathe her.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Anyway, now that you’ve been introduced to my dear friend Clarity, I take it you got what you needed?”
“I did.” But at what cost? “Am I in your debt?”
Nita came closer. “You are.”
Ash and damnation. And what in the name of all fourteen gods was that twinge in her stomach? She needed time away from Nita to think about these strange feelings. Varda cleared her throat. “And how would you have me pay?”
“I’ll think of something.” Nita chuckled. “Don’t look so afraid. Maybe I’ll just need a pair of strong arms to open a jar for me. Or lithe fingers to scratch my itches.”
Scratch her— Shit. Varda’s heart thumped hard. “Hmph. How did you know about this place?”
Nita shrugged. “We studied maps when we were kids. Clarity must’ve thought her people would keep us out, or she wouldn’t have been so candid. What will you do now? You have much to consider after hearing that.”
What would she do? All things aside, Frank did good work, even if his motivations were horrid. The Dvarans gained more from the resistance than she or her mother could offer. They’d been sailing on the edge of demise for too long and couldn’t return to that.
Still, how would she keep an alliance she could barely grip, marry a man who could not stand her, and keep her mother from splitting the resistance in half? No one in Ehrdia would benefit if that happened.
And this Clarity—she was a huge problem. She would be no assistance to Dvara, and neither would Frank while he remained under her influence.
Yet, he’d gone against her wishes in his alliance with Dvara. Did that mean he’d wanted the alliance? He’d certainly made the decision without consulting anyone. Maybe Frank was attempting to break free of his spymaster. The more she thought about it, the stronger Varda’s conviction became. Frank was trying to build his own support network, one that didn’t include Clarity.
Varda would help him escape Clarity. Even if she was wrong, and he wasn’t ready to let go of his grandmama, it would be best for Dvara if Varda convinced him otherwise.
Decided, then. She’d stay.
More pressing was Cara, who had no idea what was being done to her. Malak was obviously in Clarity’s service, the one administering the drug. Maybe removing the harlot remained the best place to start—a move to free Cara while dealing a blow to Clarity.
Ehrd, Lugh, and Ninmah, grant me the wisdom to navigate this storm.
She’d see Olaf. Maybe the gods had spoken to him, now that he was back on dry land and could complete his rituals again.
“We should leave before someone finds us,” Nita said.
Varda nodded. “I have things to do.”
***
The Dvarans were housed outside the keep, in their section of the tented soldiers’ living area. Only fifty or so of them were ever present in the camp, the rest were stationed at outposts. Some nodded at Varda as she passed, but most ignored her. Had she lost favour? Had she spent too much time in the keep, with Frank and his council, while she should have been among her people?
No. They had come here to survive. The gods had indicated this path—even her mother agreed on that point. Admittedly, to get her to agree had taken Varda and Olaf’s combined coaxing, but the people would see the truth, and if they refused to, they’d be alive to differ.
Still, with the passages in the walls it would be best if Varda and Vendla moved to the tent village instead. Out of Clarity’s immediate reach.
Rain dripped from the tarps covering the paved walkways, the ground was slick and wet where the ice had melted. In the morning, it would be frozen into the usual slippery mess. If they were lucky, there would be salt to spare for the paths. The air stank of wet—wet tents, wet bears, wet armour. Rivers of mud and ale transported blades of grass or feathers between the cobbles, but the hearty scent of ale was broken by a familiar aroma. Coffee? Couldn’t be.
In Dvara, coffee was a sacred thing, almost as sacred as the gods, the bears, and ale. On the ships, however, they’d had to cope without the beverage, as stealing it from the emperor had grown too complicated. Especially in later years.
Yet, sure as Ehrd, a pair of Dvaran women sat outside their tent, playing a game of cards and cradling mugs of black-brown coffee.
“Where’d you get this?” Varda pointed at the mugs.
One of the women shrugged. “King’s trying to buy our favour.”
What an interesting twist. “Is it working?”
The woman huffed. “It’ll take more than coffee to make up for not keeping his bloody promises.”
True. Frank had made no move to keep with the terms of alliance, and her people would only remain passive for so long. Another black mark against his name. Vanth’s balls, what else?
Fish reeked from the communal tent where the bears were fed, overpowering even the blessed scent of coffee. Olaf was bent between the scraps the bears had discarded, chanting as he looked for signs from the gods.
“It’s been a while, old friend,” Varda said.
He looked at her from the corner of his eye but did not stop his chanting. His fingers were bent around his gothi’s necklace, skin and wood covered in a pink slime of blood and saliva. Some of it had been
smeared on his face and pale beard. He stood about a minute later and wiped his hands on his cloak. “You’ve forgotten us.”
She straightened her neck and shoulders. “Never that.”
Olaf smiled. “You must make an offering. Come.”
She fell in beside him as they walked to his tent. His bear, Asger, moved like a sloth. Asger was close to his fortieth year. He couldn’t have much longer. What would Olaf do then? Asger had been a cub when he’d chosen Olaf, who’d been twelve or thirteen. Cubs rarely chose bond-humans older than their teenage years, which meant no new cub would choose Olaf. For gothis, this often resulted in suicide. How could they receive the word of the gods without the presence of one of their messengers?
What would Varda do if Olaf killed himself? He’d been training a few possible replacements—Sven among them—but none of them had received preference. It would be a dark time if Olaf died, leaving the Dvarans rudderless in a strange kingdom.
In his tent was a cage of chickens. Feathers clung to everything and the interior reeked of droppings.
“I had a vision,” he said.
“What have the gods told you?” Varda asked.
“Things are clearer now that a choice has been made.”
She frowned. “What choice?”
Olaf barked a laugh. “There was a long-outstanding prophecy. Your mother had to choose one of three options, and she chose to marry you off to Francois.”
This was news. Was that why Vendla had been unable to decide the best course? Why Olaf had been so adamant to bring them to Mordoux? To force a choice. Did that mean the gods wanted her to marry Frank? Varda’s neck itched. But what had the other options been?
“The next choice will be yours. A change is coming—a crossroads. Honour the gods, and they’ll show you the way.”
Crossroads indeed. Despite everything, Vendla had chosen alliance and betrothal. Varda would continue down the same path. “What does the old whale say about all of this?”
Olaf shrugged. “You know I can’t read her. I can tell you this—you and your mother will remain at odds. No matter what you choose.”
Of course they would. Varda and Vendla could see the same vision at the same time and still take away opposing convictions. Vendla interpreted things differently, and always saw another way, another option. But maybe it wasn’t on purpose, as Varda had always believed. Maybe this long-outstanding prophecy and its set of choices would always influence her mother’s mind.
Thank Ehrd they were back in a position where Olaf could speak to the gods regularly, and Frank had sourced the herbs they needed for smoking, so they didn’t have to rely upon old visions.
Olaf picked a random chicken from the cage and held it by the neck.
Varda took it. “I’m ready to make my offering.”
Chapter 6
Seraphine rubbed her neck and rolled her shoulders. If only she could find Kida. “Richard, have you seen my cat?”
He peered up from the map of Aelland, almost covered in red circles. “She’s gone?” His fingertips shook as he returned the pen to the inkwell. Where was the proud crown prince, and who was this haggard stranger? Creator, Richard looked exactly as Sera felt.
“I can’t find her anywhere,” she said.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t even notice. She can’t be far.”
Sera swallowed the bubble rising in her throat. “Can I help with something?”
“Can you sing a song to place Aelland under a spell, so we can gather the sick ones into the damn quarantine camps? They refuse to go, and I honestly don’t need that complication.” Richard breathed hard, nostrils flaring. “But who can blame them? They’re literally being rounded up and locked away to die. Out of sight. Surrounded by members of the other classes—the people they’re at war with.”
“You’d think the idea of keeping their families uninfected would be a bigger motivator,” Sera said.
“The families are often the problem. They don’t want to send their loved ones to the camps for the same reason that some of the ill ones don’t want to go.”
During the twelve days since the slum-mob had come to Roicester, Richard had been working too hard. He pored over reports until the small hours, barely ate and rubbed at his temples constantly. While the orders regarding their current crisis came from Victor, Richard held the true authority.
His eyes were circled in deep blue, and his lips were dry and cracked. Too little sleep. He was Aelland’s last hope. The alternative, George, was unfit at best. If only Victor had produced another heir. She should have foreseen this problem and made him have that heir. With her. She shuddered at the thought. If only she wanted children. Or Victor.
Sera would do what she could to help Richard, and first on that list was a sleeping elixir. She’d ask Laura to have one delivered to Richard’s suite. “Well, I’m going to keep looking for Kida. Find me if you need me.”
“Hmm.” He bent over the map again.
She checked all the cat’s favourite hiding spots, but when she didn’t find her, Sera’s frantic search bordered on hysteria. “Kida? Kida! Where are you?”
She had no idea if animals other than rats could die of rot, but she worried that Kida may have caught a mouse and, with it, the illness. Maybe she was needlessly paranoid, but Kida had never stayed away so long before.
The royals were still stuck in the east wing, though the rest of the building was technically safe. The army had gone to the slums to save the healers from the tavern where they’d been kept hostage, and the slummers had let them go without a fight. The physicians, under Magnus’s lead, had disinfected the palace.
Rot had come under loose control with the physicians’ return from the slums. Their disinfection methods were effective, and the employment of various insect repellents seemed to have a positive result. Further, they had quarantine procedures in place. The rot-infected Aels didn’t approve, as Richard had said, but the king’s army had cordoned them off, and they had no escape or choice. Still, despite all efforts, Aels died at a frightening rate, and as the physicians worked harder to stop the spread, they became more susceptible themselves. What would happen when they began to die in droves?
Victor tried. He tried to remedy what he’d caused. He avoided Laroche and deferred to Richard’s council. Unfortunately, his attempts were likely too late.
Like Victor, Sera avoided the snake in their midst as far as possible. Snakes. George was as big a problem as Laroche.
For now, the greatest concern was Kida. Where could she be?
Sera entered the hallway to the sitting room where her search had started just as Laura left the same room, wearing a bright smile, her eyes glossy.
“Laura,” Sera said.
Laura didn’t turn. She left the hallway with an exaggerated sigh, hands clutched to her chest.
Frowning, Sera stepped inside the sitting room and collided with a large, muscular body. “Ow.” She rubbed her nose and glared at the unremarkable face of her guard, Declan Thatcher.
“Excuse me, my queen,” he said.
The small hairs on her nape pricked up, and she retreated a step. Was she so afraid that even her most trusted guards sounded like enemies? She shook her head. “Uh. Have you seen my cat?”
His eyebrows pulled together then the crease above his nose smoothed. “No, majesty. Is the animal missing?”
“Yes.” She shoved past him. “Please, help me look.”
“Of…course.” He blinked then hurried in the opposite direction.
Sera bent to check under the sofas again. When she rose, Laroche was behind her.
“We need to talk,” he said.
In part, his new behaviour was why she avoided him. Something had changed since the time she’d learned he’d gone to the Du Pont estate. He’d lied to cover for her with George and had looked at her with an almost sorrowful expression at every encounter since, even when he’d suggested Victor burn the slums and started this whole mess. He was softer, as he’d been before he’d m
urdered Celestine in cold blood.
Or maybe he hadn’t murdered her. Who knew what the truth was these days?
“I don’t have time. I’m looking for my cat.” She turned from him and took the way back to her suite.
He kept pace with her. “She’s gone?”
“I wouldn’t be looking otherwise.”
“Since when?” He sounded so much like her father, the one she’d worshipped as a girl; she paused mid-step to study him.
Could he be sincere? What in the Creator’s name had happened at the Du Pont estate to affect him in this way? She bit the inside of her cheek. “Since yesterday afternoon.”
“I’ll help you look.” He went back in the direction from where they’d come.
This had to be a play in the game. A snake was still a snake and would strike when agitated.
***
Sera sat on the carpet at the foot of her bed and bit back sobs. Not her real bed; the one she’d been using in this sub-par room in this sub-par part of the palace. Everything was too pink, too frilly, the carpets too soft and the vases decorated with too many perfect flowers.
But that wasn’t what had her blubbering like a commoner. Kida’s absence crippled her. In the face of everything else, one lost cat wasn’t such a pressing thing, and yet, it hurt. Kida was family, as good as Cara or Laura. How many moments of strength had she drawn from holding Kida to her chest? So much love from one small black-and-white feline.
A knock sounded, and Sera opened the door.
Roye saluted, then stepped aside so the short, orange-haired physician who worked with Magnus could enter. He bowed. “Good afternoon, your majesty. I’m Professor Scrivenor, a close friend of Jacques Du Pont.”
She’d heard of him. Everybody in Aelland knew of the genius Jeremy Scrivenor, one of the brightest minds of the century. Pointy really did move in esteemed circles.
Roye nodded. “My queen, you asked me for proof. Jerry has it. I’ll be right outside.” He saluted again then left.
Scrivenor clutched a thick brown envelope in one of his stocky hands. “Pointy told me to seek you out, majesty. He sent me to his father to personally collect everything in this envelope. You might not believe it at first, but it’s all true. I specialise in research, and I’ve corroborated everything non-clandestine from sources at the library or university.” He paced forward and offered her the envelope.
A Trial of Sparks & Kindling (Fall of the Mantle Book 2) Page 5
