Bones of the
Fair
by Andrea K Höst
Bones of the Fair
© 2013 Andrea K Höst. All rights reserved.
www.andreakhost.com
Cover art: Julie Dillon
ISBN: 978-0-9872651-7-3
Published by Andrea K Hösth at Smashwords
All characters in this publication
are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
Author's Note
Spelling is Australian English.
Description
Darest stands on the verge of a Golden Age. The revival of the Rathen line and a blood price won from the Fair has drawn a flood of visitors eager to snatch their share of changing fortune – or at least one of the fabulous prizes offered at the Spring Festival.
Among those coaxed back to the once-failing kingdom is Gentian Calder, daughter of Shapers. Before she can decide whether to risk her life by staying, news arrives to put all other considerations aside. The Atlaran Ambassador and half the heirs of the western kingdoms have disappeared on Darest's border.
Gentian agrees to join the Diamond Coeurveur and his apprentice in a rush to join the search. Will they find the missing? A plot against Darest? Or uncover older secrets, buried deep?
Chapter One
Looking north, Gentian Calder could make out the shadow of land. Sapphire Point. Soon they'd enter the Bay of Diamonds, and dock in Tor Darest. After fourteen years, Gentian was coming home.
She would pay for it. No true-mage could go back on their sworn word without some kind of consequence, and since it was her self she was breaking faith with, it would be a very personal cost. All for a mere possibility.
News of the Rathen King's return had reached her the previous autumn. A man transported out of the past, who'd seen an end to the tainted Couerveur Regency, won a vital diplomatic concession from The Deeping, quite turned the failing kingdom's fortunes around. Gentian had been glad, but it had made no real difference to her. Then, during another of her mother's attempts to lure her home, she'd been given a piece of news that hadn't made its way south to Atlarus. This Aluster Rathen had also destroyed one of the old enchantments protecting Darest: a spell woven into the very fabric of the land that had warped and corrupted over the centuries.
How long had she hesitated? A moment? Two? She hadn't even needed the bait her mother had dangled before her, had taken first ship north, every league equal parts anticipation and dread.
The line on the horizon crept closer, and then shifted to the left as they drew toward the gulf known as the Bay of Diamonds. The Waraga was a small ship, the wind unfavourable, so it was late afternoon before Gentian felt the shift of territory as they crossed an invisible border, and she tasted Darest for the first time since she was fourteen.
A tiny sigh escaped her, and she stood gripping the rail against her disappointment. There was an absence, something different, but It was still there. Darest still hated her. She'd been mad to think that victory would simply be handed to her, that It could ever be vanquished.
Into her regret burst a flare of power, unexpected against the unwieldy tide of the ocean's magic. It drew Gentian's startled gaze down to the bow-wave of the Waraga, to look into the eyes of a corpse.
The body was being dragged along as if it had been tied somehow to the hull, drowned face shadowed by the spray. Leaning over the rail, she saw a slight figure with short brown hair. Blindly staring eyes looked out of white flesh so bloated the features were almost lost. But still, after a moment's disorientation she recognised them. The face was her own.
"Sea-fetch."
Naming the fetch broke its casting. The apparition sank into the spray, leaving her only a glimpse of fin and flicking tail, and an uncharacteristic taste of foreboding. A sea-fetch was one of the few true seers, and this visitation was a warning of impending danger. Those who saw their deaths in a fetch's eyes were on the brink of mortal peril. Ill-luck, ill-will – something – would try to strike her down.
If this was the consequence of breaking her vow, it certainly hadn't wasted any time. But it provided a counterpoint, distraction from defeat, and Gentian smiled for the first time since her return journey had begun. Did threats matter? She had gambled, she had lost, and Darest was still far greater than anything she could defeat. So she would go to the meeting which was her excuse for returning, visit her parents because she had promised, and finally see her longed-for home steading. Goldenrod. She would never bond with a place more, never feel more centred and herself than she had there. But then she would leave.
Darest was a hopeless fight.
ooOoo
Resolution was struck an immediate blow when they drew into the harbour of Tor Darest, the capital of Darest, and Gentian set eyes on the excuse. On Vostal Hill, close by the palace, it caught her up and left her staring open-mouthed.
"Quite a sight, isn't it?"
"Wonderful."
The Waraga's first mate laughed at the reverential note in her voice. "We were in port when it happened. Didn't take more than a few moments for the thing to grow. Ten day wonder."
The 'thing' was a pavilion fashioned from four massive trees: coin-leaf lorams set on the very crown of Vostal Hill's grassy bulk. Black trunks reached straight and slender for the sun, but then bent unnaturally in toward each other, branches twining together into a peak. In autumn the light green leaves would brighten to a vivid yellow-gold. In Winter bare black branches would be filigree grace.
She wanted it.
"Filled with blue light, it was," the first mate commented, watching her face quizzically. "The Fae Court, come to Darest."
"There's something inside," Gentian said slowly. "Seats."
"Now how'd you tell that? Yes, a throne for the Fae Queen, and a throne for King Aluster. Ah, I'd have given a lot to be a fly on the wall for that meeting, to see our King make the Fair eat crow. It'll be the last trees they give us, that's for sure."
The woman chuckled appreciatively while Gentian sharpened her sight further, to gaze at two far-distant thrones, also fashioned from living trees. Maple, perhaps, or sellac. Lovely.
The King wanted to turn the entire hill into a garden. Gentian, thanks to the exertions of her mother, was here to consult on the project. The Fae pavilion had been mentioned, but no-one had explained.
She allowed her sight return to normal, and made herself look away. But her head was already filling with images, with possibilities and the need to give them substance. Walking away from Vostal Hill's crown would be an act of sheer will.
"Neatly caught," she murmured, with the softest of laughs. "Well done, mother."
"Pardon, Miss?"
"I see they've been clearing out the docks."
"They have. The restoration's been running smooth as silk since the snow melt. Timber arrives from the Tongue, they build new houses just south of Belsen Cove, and pull down a few more of the shanties in the docklands as soon as the residents move out. See there? Not fancy places, but there's few who'll baulk at taking them, specially since there's a yard-grant of land to go with it. And they've already started work on Belsen Cove. Going to build ships."
There was open satisfaction on the first mate's seamed face as she looked west to a community growing around the beginnings of a dry-dock. Gentian hadn't been to Darest's capital since she was twelve, but vivid images of grace and neglect had remained with her. Back when Darest had been more than wealthy the Rathen rulers had set a fashion – or dictated it, given the tales of Rathen autocracy – for style to never be sacrificed for utility. The result was beautiful. Tor Darest flowed over the hills at the mouth of the Eldavar River, full of marvellous lines.
The foreshore featured a wide promenade of the warm honey sandstone used for most of the buildings, with a deliberate contrast of dark grey stone that Gentian found particularly pleasing. It had been an airy, expansive city, well sewered, with plenty of parkland and marvellous views across the glittering bay.
Since the last Rathen King – bar this reappearing Aluster – had died two hundred years ago, Darest had steadily declined. Bad luck blighted every venture, an enchanted forest known as the Tongue had overtaken the north-east, and farm and orchard workers had been driven from their land: out of the kingdom altogether, or to Tor Darest. The docks particularly had struggled to accommodate the influx, become more shanty town than functioning port. Cracks had been left untended, were followed by weeds, dirt, and a general shabbiness had crept across the city.
A single winter could hardly wash all that away, but clearing out the docks made a marvellous difference. The wood for the new housing came from the Tongue: the Fae kingdom to the east had finally been forced to admit their responsibility for the forest's encroachment and were now obliged to chop it down, restore the orchards, even prepare the lumber for building. Judging from the number of ships in port, and the busy crowd on the foreshore, Gentian was not the only one to return hoping to enjoy altered fortune.
The sails cracked in a freshening breeze and the first mate tipped her cap before hurrying off to bark orders. Gentian watched the Waraga's crew swarm over the rigging, then turned her thoughts to the immediate future. A place to eat, a place to sleep.
Too late to escape that.
Chapter Two
It struck. Gentian woke with a sharp intake of breath, shuddering at her heart's own assault, hearing nothing over the pounding of blood, every jangled nerve shouting aloud: Fight! Flee! Foe!
Another breath, as memory flooded past shock; the same progression she'd followed so many times. First a hammer of loathing, the pre-dawn blow of a vast, inimical giant. Next a sense of being wrung like a rag, trapped beneath a black weight, desperate for escape. Fear made exquisite by urgency.
A third breath, as racing dread collapsed to shaky aftermath. Taut muscle dissolving, pain vanishing to memory, skin damp with a lightning-flash of sweat gone cool. Sick disorientation. A wash of revulsion for all the world. So utterly familiar.
Her fourth morning back, her fourth waking. She would endure this every day she remained within the borders. Even that wood-wrought pavilion could not hope to balance it.
Darest.
There was a tang of blood at the back of her throat, a variation on her morning trial. She had grown more sensitive to It. A sip of water thinned the taste of iron, but left her impatient to get on, so as soon as she was able she dressed, packed her belongings, and slung the bags about her shoulders. Today she was to meet the King, and would start out for Goldenrod immediately after.
Though the morning had barely crept past dawn, half the inn's staff were bustling when Gentian came down to settle her account. The kingdom was in the grip of industry, all eager preparation for a grand spring festival to celebrate the rediscovered King. The flatlands between the city's northwest and Belsen Cove were being prepared for a sprawling market fair, and the festival boasted sword matches and races and duelling illusionists, all with truly excessive prizes.
The big event might be weeks away, but Tor Darest was already crowded. The prize purses would be easily made back in harbour fees and fairground taxes, and it was pleasant to see the city so alive and eager. Walking out into streets glistening with early rain, Gentian watched the stir approvingly.
After settling at a harbour-front bakery, balcony tables already filling with an assorted crowd of breakfasters, her gaze strayed inevitably across the bay to the palace and its glorious neighbour. Waiting for the King to schedule their meeting, she'd spent the past few days circling that sight: wandering the wealthy suburbs directly north of the palace, then the sheep-dotted hills to the south and east. She'd finally walked the quiet beach which ran around the base of the hills, and onto Vostal Hill itself, tasting it. Darest, this particular part of Darest, absorbed her fully.
The hook was firmly embedded, right in that spot behind her breastbone. Always, when her particular weakness had her in its grip, she felt it there most. Need for what could be, waiting to be born. She'd sometimes not won a commission for a garden, but she'd never turned her back on one before.
Nor had she yet. Though she loathed her mornings in Darest, Gentian longed to stay, despite vows and resolutions and a straightforward sense of self-preservation. Vostal Hill, that glorious crown, was tipping her into self-doubt. She had endured fourteen years of Darest, had grown strong in her fourteen years away. The hill would take months, but she wanted what she could make of it, what should be made of it for Darest's own sake.
Gentian spent a lazy morning, eating a sumptuous half dozen of the Darien pastries she had missed most. And reconstructing a semblance of resolve. She loved it and longed for it, but Darest was not good for her. Her garden, the vision that living crown had inspired – well perhaps for the first time she would merely provide a design, but not oversee construction.
It was time to see the King.
ooOoo
"You understand, of course, that His Majesty is very busy with preparations. It shouldn't be much longer."
"Of course," Gentian said absently. She cared less about delays than the neatly drawn plans her mother's friend Chult – the palace's Master Gardener – had presented her on arrival. A design for Vostal Hill, well thought-out, showing a certain flair and sense of balance.
Rolling them up, she glanced down the busy hall to the closed doors of the throne room, where two guards in black and brown uniforms were alertly watching the passing throng.
Lips pressed together, Gentian turned away, walking to the far end of the hall and into the stone-bounded garden itching at the very boundaries of her senses. The massive enchantments of the palace were almost entirely gone, but an echo lingered here of the deep-throated murmur she remembered from her childhood visit. She closed her eyes to feel it better: a well-worn groove, like the bed of a dry river. It would be years, perhaps centuries, before the shape of it was gone, with or without the living plant. This place had become the Rathen Rose.
With considerable interest she studied the thorny tendrils twining about the arches of the paved garden. A vessel to bear the force of the enchantment that had protected the palace, the Rathen inheritance, and the very borders of Darest until it had warped and been destroyed by the new King. Gentian puzzled over its leafy husk until an approaching swirl and murmur of bound power warned her the time for reverie was at an end.
"Perhaps a Kedristan red, Master Chult?" she asked as she turned to look out into the hall.
"Do you think so?" Chult sounded startled. "I've never considered what species it might be."
"Father would probably be able to tell," Gentian mused, tapping the Master Gardener's arm to warn him of the arrival announced by bound power. "I'll have to ask him."
"Does it matter?" asked the lead of the trio entering the garden: a tall, lean man with hair and eyes near-matching shades of blue-black.
Gentian automatically swept into the neat little bow she'd perfected for use on monarchs. It was, she reflected, the first time she'd used it on one of her own.
"Certainly," she said. "The Kedristans prefer intense pruning."
"Pruning?"
Dismay from the second of the trio, standing to the King's right. A woman almost as tall as he, her grey eyes and braided black hair complemented by a surcoat of black chased with gold and silver. The uniform suited her build and colouring, giving her a dignity Gentian associated with idealised marble statues. It also served to nearly hide well-advanced pregnancy. This, then, was the traditional champion of the Rathen rulers, once part of the kingdom's enchantments. There was a space in the taste of the garden which matched her shape.
She was also one of the sources of bound power. Close now, Gentian could hear its intent:
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"See them, see it, see there, see now, see this, see here, see that, see, see, SEE."
A strong, circular binding that would last several days, prompting Gentian to study the woman's grey eyes, discovering a fixed lack of focus and dilated pupils. Blind. The spell replaced her sight.
"It's, what?" Gentian said. "Six, seven hundred years old? Centuries past its usual span, and the maintenance structure suddenly gone. Unless you're planning to just uproot it, you'll need to replace that. Otherwise it will–" She looked away from the clear discomfort on the Champion's face and surveyed the tangle of vines, the canopy of thorn and serrated leaf. Behind them, the worn grooves of function, a sense of absent purpose, and a yearning ache reaching out to fill the space where the Champion should stand. "It's vulnerable."
Eloquent little silence. Gentian didn't know the details of how the Rose's enchantment had warped, but plainly it had left its scars.
The awkward moment was broken by the third member of the trio, standing a little behind the other two, to the King's left. He was a smaller man, and should surely recede into the background beside the force and height of King and Champion. Instead, clad all in white to highlight porcelain pale skin and white-blond hair, he provided contrast and counterpoint, while his sheer presence, a singular self-possession, threw his companions into shade. He was slender, with finely drawn features, compact chin, a truly beautiful mouth, and the most strikingly vivid eyes: dark rims circled irises of deep sapphire, with a crystalline corona, blue-white, radiating from the pupils. Eyes that, if you looked into them too long, might send you blind.
"You have inherited Laeth Varpatten's sensitivity, Magister Calder?" he asked. An innocuous, tension-breaking question in a perfectly polite tone of voice. And yet there was a glitter in those eyes, a sweetness to the curve of that mouth, which turned the words into an opening thrust.
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