Nordin studied her, suspicion radiating from his pores like sweat. “Do not influence me, Vianne-Ava. I’ll know it the moment you leave, and I’m not inclined to be generous.”
“We share a common enemy, Captain. I would not deceive you.”
“What do the Cull Tarr want in the Far Wolds?”
She didn’t dare risk the truth and sprinkled him with a mere trace of love, pleasure, and fear, in doses to gently nudge trust and respect. “The high wards’ oaths, Captain. Tor, Falcyn, and Outlyer are the only cities not sworn to the Shiplord. He can’t afford the time away from Elan-Sia for this trip. Linc is his ambassador, and my influence is expected to remove obstacles and ensure compliance.”
“Inconvenient for a few sworn words.”
“Agreed,” she admitted. “The territories have a notorious reputation when it comes to honoring their oaths. Yet, Airon is thorough. The ambassador will impress upon the high wards the consequences of defiance.”
“And if I don’t allow you through, Jagur and Gannon die?”
“That is the immediate threat, a personal one to both of us. My appeal for the commander’s life was more transparent than I wished.” She dusted him with compassion and edged it toward anxiety. “But it’s not the only one. I know Airon will not tolerate rebelliousness. If Guardian locks the gates to the south, he will open them by force.”
“Let him try to march an army of seafarers up here.”
“He wouldn’t need to, Captain. He has tens of thousands of hostages he’ll sacrifice until you comply.”
Chapter Sixteen
Vianne exhaled a long breath when the gates of Guardian closed behind her. Linc’s dapple edged up beside her horse on the narrow track between the trees. He nodded a greeting. “Thank you, Vianne-Ava, for seeing us safely through.”
“Had I a choice?” She censored the scorn on her tongue.
“There are always choices. Most require little thought; they pass through our days without effort. The ones we ponder are those that change the course of our lives, those which demand sacrifice.”
The debate didn’t interest her. He spoke of choices from a position of power with nothing to lose. Ask the powerless about their choices, and the answer will reflect their willingness and tolerance for suffering.
She and the ambassador were as different as fire and rain, and she wondered who embodied which. Swarthy complexioned with his long oiled hair and black jacket, he was the opposite of her fairness, her choice in snowy clothing. Yet their outside appearance only reflected deeper rifts. He believed his faith with ardent certainty, believed his lord, believed in his gods with righteousness, while she gradually surrendered her convictions. With the clarity of time, she saw that the foundation on which her identity rested had begun crumbling years ago. Her belief in her guild, in her power, that she could steer Ellegeance toward a brighter, more bountiful future was a naive dream bordering on delusional.
“My regrets for what has occurred,” Linc said. “It was not the Shiplord’s intention to bring misery to you and your people. To the contrary, he wished for a bond that would reunite us in peace and prosperity.”
“Hm,” she exhaled. “That would hardly fill his quota for slaves.”
“Every society has its share of suffering.” His saddle creaked as the horses climbed the pass. “Ellegeance has its warrens, people scratching in the dirt beneath the guilds’ feet. You have tiers dividing your guilds, the elite at the top, lesser humans at the bottom, and all levels between. The Founders divided themselves into ranks as well. Humans embrace a hierarchy of power.”
“We could have united peaceably given time to plan. We needed to build a foundation of trust.”
“A preferred method, yet your queen chose another. The Founders foretold that the Shiplord would be king of all Ellegeance. Tull Airon possessed a duty to fulfill their vision.”
“And his ambition.” She flicked the reins.
“He is the emissary of the Coupling Gods. He obeys their will and is rewarded with the riches of life.”
“According to his interpretation.” Vianne puffed up her cheeks and gusted out a sigh. Any attempt at reason merely squandered her time and mood, such as it was.
“If you wish,” Linc lowered his voice, “you may remain in Tor. I shall say you became ill and found travel impossible. You may be free of us, Vianne-Ava.”
Her forehead creased, and she stole a glance at him. “You would deceive your Shiplord?”
“He holds no fondness for influencers. You are not vital to his plans.”
The dismissal of her value irked her. She zapped him with a jolt of pain that affected him not in the slightest. “There are too many lives at stake. I trust the Shiplord hasn’t deceived me.”
“Above all, he is a man of his word.”
“He has yet to prove your opinion.”
Linc’s dapple dropped back, and she rode in silence, his words failing to reassure her. She would execute the Shiplord’s terrible bidding, for if she refused, he would simply conscript another, and Jagur and Gannon would die for her disobedience. In another day, they’d reach Tor, and her actions would once again initiate a landslide of consequences that would thunder out of control. This time she knew it. No matter Linc’s lecture, this time she hadn’t a choice.
The higher they climbed, the shorter and more gnarled the trees grew until they disappeared altogether. Scrub brush pocked the Fangwold’s higher elevation and eventually that too surrendered to the wind and cold, leaving shuddering grass and crusty snow.
Vianne clutched her cloak tighter, finding it hard to believe that Summertide crept only weeks away. The sun balanced on the jagged silhouette of a pointed peak, and the clouds blazed in gold and vermillion. She gazed over her shoulder at the receding view of Ellegeance. Green hills piled themselves upon each other's shoulders. In the distance, the land flattened and merged into an amethyst haze. The southern rivers reflected the sky like living veins, the planet’s blood feeding its flesh.
Wind scoured the pass, and the other side of the mountain range didn’t impress. Brown slopes and a ruptured dam, mud and a nearly treeless valley. The sprawling city of Tor puffed smoke like Jagur’s pipe when his mind churned.
Night had fallen by the time they rode into the wood and stone city. After some wandering, they stabled their horses and entered a newly built fane, a shrine dedicated to the Founders. Such places of worship offered shelter for Cull Tarr devotees and popped up in other tier cities as well. Though modest, its mere existence in the Far Wolds stunned her.
In Elan-Sia, every guild hurriedly dedicated space for worship, and the Shiplord had usurped the largest tavern and hostelry on the second tier for Cull Tarr religious training. She couldn’t imagine the changes in Ava-Grea and truly would rather not know.
Cramped and chilly, her chamber was furnished with a straw-stuffed bed and punishing chair. A luminescent lantern, washbasin, and decanter of dead water crowded a small table. She pulled the blanket off the hard mattress and wrapped it around her shoulders. Her stomach rumbled, but she lacked the will to inquire about food. Instead, she sank to the bed’s edge and stewed.
A bell rang in the distance, and by the time she noticed, it was too late to count the time. Someone tapped on her door. “Vianne-Ava?”
“None other.”
Falco Linc entered with a wooden tray. “I supposed you might be hungry. Hot soup and bread.” With no place to set it down, he handed it to her.
She rested it on her knees. “An ambassador serving food?”
“I didn’t wish you to go hungry.” He smiled and helped himself to the lone chair.
“You’re the one Cull Tarr person I’ve met who is actually kind.”
“Many of us are kind, but our duties temper one’s opinion.”
“Both ways, I assume.”
“Indeed.”
The soup smelled wonderful, but she couldn’t eat with him watching. “Is there something more?”
He nodded. “W
e received word of the child’s location. She lives in a Farlander village to the southwest, a day’s ride into the forest. We shall depart early tomorrow morning and take her by nightfall.”
A shudder racked her body, and the soup quivered in her bowl. “How?’
He tilted his head as if the question made no sense. “You will use your influence, and I shall bring my men.”
“How many people live there?”
“Near eighty, we believe.”
“It’s not that simple.” She stared at the food without seeing it. “I can’t blanket them with influence. Anyone beyond my vision is unaffected. They’ll have bows and spears, and people will die.”
“A risk we accept in service to the Shiplord.”
“Not if you wish to fulfill the mission,” she snapped at him, his pious adoration grating. “You’ll end up slaying villagers, including children, possibly the very child you wished to secure. And some of us need to survive.”
“You’re advice, Vianne-Ava?”
She met his eyes, the question sincere. “I haven’t your answer.” Her vision of slaughter wasn’t prophetic, but she could foresee the panic, and in that chaos, anything might occur. “I know you will capture Rose one way or another. I beg you to allow me a sliver of humanity. I raised her mother. Let me ensure the child’s safety.”
Despite Catling’s complaints and misery, despite all those who had plotted her death, Vianne had cared for her and kept her alive. That wasn’t wrong in light of the alternative. Now, she would do so again for another child, for Rose. Her eyes closed, she swore a silent oath to protect the girl from harm, a promise determined to assuage her guilt.
Guilt for the certain deaths of Whitt and Sim.
She barred them from her conscience, refusing to dwell on the consequences of her actions. “The eight of us can’t fight a Farlander village. You must find another way, Ambassador. Lure them from their home. Isolate them. We can’t risk it any other way.”
***
Two shaggy horses plodded along the trail. Vianne heard voices before she spied the riders. She hid with Linc behind a rock ledge. The six Cull Tarr jacks spread out in the green brush bordering the path. Linc grunted when they rode into view. “A complication.”
The lead rider wasn’t Whitt. Vianne sighed with relief even though she knew without a doubt he’d hunt the child down and kill those who stole her. A lean Farlander rode the first horse, his flaxen hair in a long braid. Scars striped his cheeks and forehead, and the spots on his shoulders and limbs resembled paw prints. He held the reins lightly, a spear resting across a knee, a strung bow on his back.
He chatted idly with the Farlander woman who rode the second horse. Vianne remembered Sim from Elan-Sia, the short locks tucked behind her tapered ears, her gentleness with Rose. Long and slender with slanted emerald eyes and high cheekbones, she embodied the exotic beauty of the planet’s natives.
Vianne’s mind didn’t linger there, compassion dangerous under the circumstances. Instead, her thoughts turned to Rose riding between Sim’s knees. She looked older, aware, engaging in conversation. Happy. Shame pierced Vianne’s heart, and panic crushed her will. She twisted to Linc. “We can’t do this.”
The first arrow flew, plunging into the male Farlander’s chest. A second struck his thigh. He reached for his spear as he toppled. The horse skittered sideways, and Sim took off at a gallop.
Vianne threw a blast of pain at her. She screamed and fell from her saddle, dragging Rose with her. A wall of green shot from the soil blocking Vianne’s view. Cull Tarr jacks burst from their hiding spots and scrambled through the brush after them. Linc leapt up and dragged Vianne forward.
A colossal tree groaned, and the forest seemed to splinter. Branches crashed down in a shower of needles, crushing a Cull Tarr skull and impaling the ground like fence posts. Vines slithered across the needles and leaves, coiling around anything that remained in place too long. Another guard writhed on his back, the planet throttling him.
Vianne cried out and fell, roots tangled around her feet. Linc hacked at the strangling tendrils that spun faster than he could cut. The grip tightened, and Vianne kicked at the trees’ gnarled fingers. She yanked her feet from her boots. “I need to see her! Distract her.”
“Cull Tarr!” Linc shouted orders to the four remaining guards and ran to join them as they hunted their prey.
Vianne cursed at her bare feet. She jogged up the trail in the opposite direction of the Cull Tarr and waded into the forest, following the noise of bellowing men and Rose’s frightened cries. A tree thundered down, massive roots pitching soil into the air. The land shook and fissured. She pressed forward, no choice now, all other thoughts relegated to the forgotten corners of her mind.
Her feet hurt, punctured and scraped on the forest’s debris. She tripped and caught herself on a pale witchwood. The green world thickened and deepened before her eyes. Through the veil of twisting branches and weaving vines, she spotted Sim and Rose. The child curled at the base of a tree, screeching. Sim crouched, her eyes wild as she faced the Cull Tarr advance, her back to Vianne. Like an archer, Vianne hurled a bolt of blinding pain into the woman’s brain. Sim shrieked, clutched her head, and crumpled. Vianne kept the torment up as she approached them. Sim wailed in long gasping breaths, and the verdant land heaved. Trees toppled, flinging dirt and debris into the air.
Then pain and terror ripped through Vianne’s body, knocking her backward. She screamed as her skin burned, nerves flared, and joints twisted. Barbs of agony lodged in her eyes and her head exploded in misery. Clawing at the ground, she dragged herself away. It was Rose! Rose intended to kill her. “No! No! Please!” Her chest tightened, breath choked as she rolled into a gully.
As swiftly as the torment started, it dissolved. Panting for breath, she lay on her back, unable to twitch and afraid to rise. Her stomach cartwheeled. She rolled to her hands and knees and vomited. The forest ceased its strident commotion, and only the child’s cries saturated the air.
“Vianne!” Linc called. “We have her.”
She swallowed and spat, her body rattling beyond her control.
“Vianne!”
“Don’t hurt her!” Vianne yelled. She wiped her hands on her underdress and patted her hair into place, a pointless attempt at composure. Her feet hurt and fear clung to her like a second skin. The child’s cries continued.
“Vianne!”
She crawled to the gully’s lip and peered up. Four Cull Tarr men loomed over the distraught child, her little body draped across the dead woman. Sim lay on her side, eyes gazing blindly at Vianne, her body quilled with bolts.
A misery of fear and anger invaded Vianne’s entire being, but it was the unbearable sorrow that stole her breath away. Rose’s grief engulfed her, choked her, the loss cataclysmic. There were no words for the depth of her despair. Vianne reached out with love and comfort, wrapping the child in gentle well-being. The world felt brutal and heartless, and her dishonesty counted as one more infliction of cruelty piled atop all the others.
Slowly, she climbed from the gully, prepared to endure whatever Rose threw at her, to share every moment of the child’s wrenching misery, and for once, feel the full consequences of her influence.
Chapter Seventeen
Whitt couldn’t find them.
He’d returned from Tor to an empty hut, dusk near and promising to paint the sky in watercolors. Owls hooted from across the pond. Sim rarely kept Rose outside the village boundaries when the sun slept, and only for good reason. Their absence niggled at his nerves.
A few questions revealed the truth. One of Tor’s city guards had passed along a message that the guardians in Tor required his council, and Sim and Rose should join him. The missive was perfectly vague. If he’d been in the village, the three of them would have departed together. Otherwise, it appeared as though he awaited their arrival in the city. In a heartbeat, his life stuttered. Dread clawed up the back of his legs into his spine.
He and three o
thers rode out as dusk rolled away the sun.
Even in the failing light, the place of battle wasn’t difficult to find once they understood what they searched for. Parallel to the trail, saplings and tangled vines crowded the larger trees. Downed eldergreen and shattered limbs formed makeshift barricades. Churned up dirt and gnarled roots littered the forest floor as if assailed with a tenacious plow. Sim had fought back.
He called her name, called for Rose, called until his voice broke and night’s long shadows deepened and lengthened with the moons’ rise. Even in the darkness, he wanted to continue toward Tor.
Lian rode up beside him. “We must wait until morning. We’ll make camp and search again with first light.”
The urge to argue pushed inside his chest, but Lian spoke the truth. They couldn’t see a blasted thing beneath the canopy. Lian reined his horse around and headed for a nearby campsite, the spot halfway between Tor and the village. The same place where Whitt and Gannon had hatched a plan that pleased the kari and changed the future of the Far Wolds.
“Whitt,” Lian called his name, and he knew by the reluctance in the man’s voice that the news was nothing he wanted to hear. He dropped his head to his chest and squeezed his eyes beneath his fingers. Tears welled and he rode forward.
The hidden camp’s rock boundary loomed before him. Lian waited in the gap between the boulders. Whitt dismounted and approached, his legs wooden and jaw trembling. The Farlander stepped aside, and Whitt walked in.
Sim and the young clansman, Tev, rested side by side on the dirt by the firepit, both dead. Their horses shuffled and snorted at the back wall. Sim lay still, pale, her eyes closed as if she slept, flaxen hair spread around her head like a halo. The holes in her body had bled, the bolts gone. He knelt beside her to check for a pulse, just to be sure, just in case by some extraordinary miracle, she lived. She was Farlander after all. His hand flinched at the cool stiffness of her body.
Kari's Reckoning (The Rose Shield Book 4) Page 10
