Kari's Reckoning (The Rose Shield Book 4)

by D. Wallace Peach

  He gripped his blade, the dagger with the bone hilt he’d appropriated in Vianne’s quarters years ago. He’d bloodied it more than once and suspected he would again. Holding his breath, he shuffled down the ramp in the middle of the pack. He glanced over his shoulder, catching glimpses of scarlet as the Cull Tarr picked away at the rear.

  His view of the piers wasn’t good, the berths nearly empty, a handful of boats listing. A Cull Tarr dragnet idled to the south, its hull scorched. Then he spied the last face he’d longed to see.

  Shipmaster Emer Tilkon sauntered to the ramp’s bottom edge, her hands on her full hips, dark eyes brimming with mirth above her hawk nose. Only her cloak displayed a ribbon of scarlet on its trim. She looked straight at him as thirty Cull Tarr archers fanned out from the ramp’s shadow, every tip aimed at his chest.

  “I’ve been praying to the Founders all day for this moment.” Her scarred upper lip pinched into a crooked smile. “Kneel or die.”

  Chapter Seven

  Lelaine gazed out the window on the twelfth tier of Ava-Grea, her thoughts elsewhere. The number of Cull Tarr ships increased to eleven, all skudders and dragnets, the river too shallow for larger vessels where it broadened into swampland. They floated like ghosts in a morning fog that glittered above the luminescent water. The view was breathtaking, worthy of a new banner.

  The notion quirked a cynical smile at the capricious nature of fate that brought her reign down to this. She had attempted to rule justly, to steer Ellegeance toward a more prosperous and equitable future, but everything had gone wrong from the very onset. Now, she’d lost Elan-Sia. Ava-Grea would fall, her realm gutted. She’d leave a legacy of failure, of broken dreams, the heirless queen who’d lost her queendom.

  A vision of Gannon’s smile rose before her eyes, and her heart ached. Had he survived? So few refugees had completed the voyage south to Ava-Grea, and those who’d limped to the piers knew as little as she. Tears threatened, and she blinked them back.

  “Your Grace?” Catling touched her shoulder, drawing her attention back to the doyen’s salon.

  Lelaine turned her head enough to whisper in Catling’s ear, “As soon as you get a chance, you must flee.”

  Catling smiled, a listless tilt of her lips full of genuine affection, and she answered as Lelaine knew she would, “I will stay with you.”

  “Then perhaps you could lend me a bit of courage.” Lelaine sighed at the woman’s surprise, but she sensed an easing of her dread, a sliver of confidence deepening her breath and lifting her shoulders. She faced the doyen who hovered around their chairs, forbidden to sit while she remained on her feet. Such a silly rule in light of their predicament.

  “The Shiplord has asked for an audience,” Dalcoran repeated the statement he’d voiced some moments ago.

  Ambassador Falco Linc waited by the door for instructions, hands clasped behind his back, his customary smile replaced by something more stoic, a look of concern or discomfort. “Shall I ask for more time, Lelaine-Elan?”

  Brenna huffed, the matronly doyen unable to hide her ire. “He pretends we bear a choice.” Neven, usually a model of serenity, fidgeted in his chair.

  “You may advise him, Ambassador”—Lelaine sharpened her tongue as she sank to the edge of a cushioned chair—“that I demand to see his terms ahead of his face. He will afford me two bells to discuss them with the doyen.”

  “I shall convey your request, Your Grace. The Shiplord will surely agree to the reasonable appeal.”

  “It’s not an appeal.” She steeled her jaw. “Dismissed.”

  The terms arrived in the form of a scroll, tied with a scarlet ribbon. Dalcoran accepted them, and Linc bowed. “Tull Airon grants you one bell. Until then.” He turned and let himself out.

  Lelaine gritted her teeth at the show of power. She signaled for a shield, desiring her own feelings, however daunting. A flutter of anxiety troubled her stomach as she watched Dalcoran unroll the single paper.

  Dalcoran flexed the fingers of his gnarled hand, scanned the document, and sighed. Relief or resignation? He looked up at her. “It’s as I expected.”

  “Read it,” she ordered.

  He held it open and the corners curled. He took a breath.

  “Your Grace, Lelaine-Elan, Queen of Ellegeance:

  The Cull Tarr stand resolute, poised to strike the final blows and lay waste to the lands, tiers, and lives of the Ellegean people.

  I, Tull Airon, Shiplord of the Cull Tarr, Ruler of the Cull Sea, prefer a path of reason, a new order of peace, security, and justice. To this end, I convey to you, Lelaine-Elan, an opportunity to end this war.

  Following are Cull Tarr terms of surrender, without deviation, alternatives, or delay:

  Acceptance of one faith in the Founders.

  Establishment of law as prescribed by the holy Book of Protocols.

  Ellegean tier cities shall tithe with each season a portion of their wealth as befits a Tier Master, to be assigned.

  Guardian forces, once disarmed, may return to the Fangwold Mountains for fifty years of exile or risk enslavement.

  Influencers shall revoke all existing vows and swear new oaths to Tull Airon, Shiplord of the Cull Tarr.

  Lelaine-Elan, Queen of Ellegeance, shall willingly enter into a bond with Tull Airon, Shiplord of the Cull Tarr.

  Tull-Airon and his heirs in perpetuity shall assume the Founder-granted throne as Kings of Ellegeance.”

  Lelaine stared at the paper in Dalcoran’s hands. “I can’t agree to this. I expected a forced bond, not an abdication of power. He said I’d control the tiers; he’d oversee Cull Tarr settlements and trade. This cedes everything; it will be the end of Ellegeance.”

  “He won, Your Grace,” Dalcoran pointed out. “His terms have changed.”

  “These are unacceptable,” she snapped. “Gannon told us the Shiplord interprets the faith and the laws. He does as he pleases. Slavery? If we agree to this, there will be no one to protect our people.”

  “Are you suggesting we fight?” Neven’s brow furrowed like a newly plowed field.

  She inhaled, attempting to think it through. “The Cull Tarr have seized Ava-Grea, and our coastal tiers are likely to surrender, possibly Bes-Strea as well. But every other city will require travel upstream by small boat or foot. They aren’t prepared for that, are they? We’re mere weeks away from Springseed; with the thaw, Guardian will march with thousands of men.”

  “Half of Ellegeance will have fallen.” Brenna’s earlier fury drained from her face.

  “But we might save the realm.”

  “We might also be dead,” Neven said, his eyes bleak.

  Lelaine threaded her fingers together and pressed them to her lips, thinking. How many would she doom? Was it wiser to surrender? She gazed at Colton, her loyal guardsmen unwavering at the door. Her eyes turned to Catling, the expression on her beautiful but strange face unreadable, her lot thrown in with Lelaine long ago. Could she sacrifice them? She wished she knew how many had lost their lives in Elan-Sia. Had Airon been satisfied with the victory or had he solidified his authority with slaughter?

  “I have to negotiate, at least,” she said. “I must soften this.”

  The doyen agreed, offered suggestions, and quarreled among themselves. Her head spun. She wished Gannon sat beside her with his knowledge of the Cull Tarr and their Protocols. Surely, there were scriptures supporting her positions, laws undermining the Shiplord’s interpretations. The bell rang, nearly jolting her from her seat.

  The door slid open, and Linc entered ahead of four jacks with long barbed spears. He bowed to her with an earnest smile. “I present Tull Airon, Shiplord of the Cull Tarr, Ruler of the Cull Sea.”

  Airon swung through the doorway and gave Lelaine a curt bow. He looked the same as she remembered, ordinary yet magnetic. He wore a fitted black jacket beneath his cloak, jet hair pulled into a tight tail, and a scarlet scarf draped loosely around his neck. “Founders bless you, Lelaine-Elan.”

  She remained
seated, the only one in the room to do so. “Please, sit.” She gestured with an open palm to the available chairs.

  “Ah,” he said with a concerned smile, “I imagine you are displeased with me.” He strode to the seat across from her, swept his cloak aside, and sat.

  “I am more than displeased, Tull Airon. These terms are not what you offered when we first met.”

  He arched an eyebrow, his steel eyes twinkling with amusement. “Forgive my oversight. At the time, I failed to understand that we negotiated your surrender.”

  “You requested an alliance. Trade agreements, land for settlements. Those may have been yours without the loss of life. Without all this destruction and drama.”

  “You find me dramatic?” He straightened his back and glanced at his ambassador.

  She glared. “I find you treacherous and unnecessarily cruel.”

  “Ah, but you see, my golden-haired queen”—he leaned forward, elbows on his knees—“I desired more than a business arrangement. I wished for a bond with the Ellegean queen. Something she refused me.”

  “Don’t mock me or lie to me, Tull Airon.” She met his gray eyes and raised a finger in warning. “You don’t desire the queen; you desire the throne, a throne that is not yours. However, I shall negotiate a fair agreement that opens the doors of Ellegeance to the Cull Tarr. We may begin working together to reunite our people in prosperity rather than death.”

  He relaxed back in his chair, massaged his chin, and studied her. “You offer to share your queendom. I imagine you would grant me a seat at your council, assign me a chamber high on your lily pad.” He glanced at his ambassador and Dalcoran. “Enticing, no?”

  “A generous offer,” she said, ignoring the mockery in his voice.

  He licked his finger and rubbed a fleck of dirt from the chair’s arm. “And if I do not accept your terms?”

  “You will leave me no choice but to face you in battle. Ellegeance is a large realm and not easily conquered. Are you willing to spend untold years in conflict and lose so many of your people? Perhaps they should be allowed to vote on whether they prefer your terms or mine.”

  Tull Airon burst out laughing, a thunderous roar shaking from his chest, his head thrown back. Lelaine couldn’t resist a little smile at her sudden inspiration. She glanced at the ambassador and guards, witnesses to her words.

  Airon slapped his thighs and chuckled until forced to wipe the mirth from his eyes. “You would make a fine Cull Tarr shipmaster.”

  “I accept the compliment.”

  “However.” He scooted forward on the seat and leaned in close. His head at a tilt, he whispered, “However, I am the Shiplord of the Cull Tarr. I will see the Founders’ will done if I must hang every Ellegean from their tiers. It made a ghastly sight in Elan-Sia.”

  Lelaine recoiled in her chair, the horror behind his words striking her in the chest and stealing her breath. Brenna gasped, and Dalcoran and Neven stared. Catling’s eyes flooded with tears, and she inched forward. Airon’s guards lowered their spears, gleaming tips aimed for a kill.

  Rising to his feet, the Shiplord snapped his fingers. Falco Linc tapped the door’s panel, and Shipmaster Emer Tilkon strode in, a satisfied smirk on her lips. She turned and barked an order. Two Cull Tarr thugs entered with Gannon slung between them, his feet shuffling in a pitiful attempt to hold his weight. His face was cut and swollen, his eyes closed to slits. Bruises and raw wounds covered his bare skin. He couldn’t walk, and he shivered, his hair and clothing soaked.

  “Gannon!” Lelaine cried. She tried to stand, and Airon pushed her back into her chair. She jolted up and lashed out, slapping his face and shoving him away. He grabbed her wrists so hard her bones threatened to break. He thrust her down to the cushion, a hand raised in warning.

  Gannon knelt between the guards, breathing calmly, in less pain. Lelaine swung her gaze to Catling, certain the woman helped him.

  Tull Airon brushed his hands together. “I imagine if I weren’t immune to your influence, I’d be drowning in agony.” He met Lelaine’s eyes. “Forgive my discourtesy, Lelaine-Elan. I am a tolerant man, but I will not permit you to strike me.”

  “And I will not be shoved by a brute,” she snapped, fighting down the tears misting her eyes.

  “Ah, you see. We are not so unlike, Lelaine-Elan. Now, we will conclude our discussion of your surrender, and I will impress upon you the consequences of any delay.” He gestured to Gannon, still on his knees between the two jacks. “Within the hour, I will start the hangings with this man, then your handsome guard, then your interesting influencer, then the doyen. Then we will string up the rest of the twelfth tier before we move down to the eleventh. I wonder how many necks we’ll break before you accept my terms.”

  Lelaine’s heartbeat echoed in her head, the only sound in the silence. Every pair of eyes stared at her, every soul immobile, expectant. She believed him, believed he would carry out his executions until she relented. Her duty was to her people, but she reached her choice when Gannon met her eyes.

  “I accept,” she murmured.

  “No,” Gannon choked out the plea.

  Lelaine shook her head. “I accept your terms on the condition that you refrain from killing anyone.”

  Airon looked down at Gannon. “He’s nearly dead.”

  “No,” Lelaine said. “I beg you, my lord, don’t kill him.”

  The Cull Tarr conqueror chuckled and lifted Lelaine’s chin with a finger. “You may call me Tull.”

  Lelaine gazed into his eyes, her life collapsing around her. “Please, Tull.

  Gannon groaned. The Shiplord pointed to his guards. “Lock him up.”

  Lelaine’s hands trembled in her lap as she watched Gannon dragged through the door. For a wrenching moment, she caught his eye, and her heart broke. She detached, floating in a surreal world, too painful to comprehend. Her whisper seemed to emanate from somewhere outside her body, “May I keep my influencer and guard?”

  “As long as it pleases me, my dear. You defy me, Lelaine, and you are all dead.”

  Chapter Eight

  Brightest Night.

  Lelaine stood on the twelfth-tier promenade in Ava-Grea outside Vianne’s empty quarters, hers to occupy. The bonding and coronation would occur that evening, a return to Elan-Sia considered an objectionable delay.

  The Ava-Grea tiers lacked a windbreak like those of the delta city, and the pristine freshness of the Springseed wind kissed her skin with ironic warmth. The brilliant flood tides backed up the rivers, deepened the swamp, and lifted the floating docks. The Slipsilver purled around Cull Tarr hulls. Fenfolk rafts, frequent visitors to the wide river, were wisely out of sight.

  The tiers seemed not to notice. A new season dawned, and the potted gardens budded and sprouted. Ava-Grea bustled in preparation for the night’s ceremonies and celebration. A few high wards and representatives from the guilds ventured the trip. Others sent gifts, not one willing to snub their soon-to-be king.

  Oaron and Laris dispatched birds from Elan-Sia. Nearly two hundred of her citizens had died. The Shiplord had deceived her with his demonic vision of a lifeless city, dangled with corpses. The Cull Tarr preferred to enslave their enemies. The guilds’ leaders and their families, the captain of the city guard, all her Queen’s Guardsmen, and the captured warriors of Guardian, were shipped in chains to distant settlements along the sea. Her loyal councilor Edark was among them, a warning to Oaron and Laris to mind their new lord. She let the latest missive flutter from her fingers off the tier’s rim.

  Colton stepped to her side. “Your Grace? Be careful at the edge.”

  She peered down the ever-widening levels to the scarlet ribbons and shell garlands, the flapping pendants, and the dais under construction on the market tier, all the way down to the gleaming water. She imagined she perceived fear and smiles, grief and laughter, an influencer’s harvest of emotions cast before her, the whole city resigned and moving forward a mere week after surrender.

  “Your Grace?” Col
ton touched her arm, and she heeded the warning, stepping back from the edge. He leaned in, his voice a whisper, “They hold Gannon below in the cells near the barracks.”

  “Are they treating him well?” She swallowed, her stomach queasy.

  “I know he’s alive.”

  “To ensure I behave.” She gripped his hand, knowing he couldn’t assuage her fear that once bonded and crowned, the Shiplord would dispose of him like hapless trash.

  “My regrets, Lelaine.”

  He used her given name without title, and the gesture, however inappropriate, touched her. Tears rose to her eyes, and she blinked them back. “You’ve protected me through the years, Colton, but you’ve also been kind.”

  “It’s been my honor and pleasure.” His lips curved up at her words. “If it’s any consolation, I have always believed you are an extraordinary queen.”

  “For a few more bells, perhaps.” She met his eyes. “I have one more command for you, Colton, and I beg you to obey. Please flee this place. If you truly care for me, you will leave and never look back.”

  “You cannot order a stone to swim, Your Grace.”

  She sighed, his reply anticipated and immune to her sway. She kissed his cheek. “So I thought. Catling is no less stubborn. Would you ask her to attend me?”

  “I will serve you as long as I live, Your Grace.” He bowed, retreated to her chambers, and returned to stand watch over her.

  She sank to a bench beneath a potted tree, the lissom blossoms peeking open in guileless beauty. Catling joined her, plucked a budding twig, and inhaled with her face in the petals. She handed it to Lelaine with a smile.

  The sweet fragrance filled Lelaine’s nose. She set the twig on her lap. “How are you so serene? How do you endure this?”

  Catling’s gaze wandered the horizon. “I’ve always been ruled by another, Lelaine. My life has been in danger since I was a girl. A new master, an ongoing danger.” She shrugged. “I’ve become accustomed to using influence, and the Cull Tarr will require an adjustment, a different sort of finesse. We will learn and adapt and as arduous as it is, we have to hold out hope.”