Kari's Reckoning (The Rose Shield Book 4)

by D. Wallace Peach

  He backed away, sat on one of the old logs ringing the fire, and cried.

  In the morning, they loaded the bodies onto the horses and returned to the village. He needed to go after Rose, but he needed to mourn Sim, to hang her bones in their tree. While her body burned, he carved woads into his skin, scored his cheeks and hairline, sliced grooves into his chest and arms. He notched his ears and slashed his shoulders and thighs. Blood ran down his legs and arms, dripped from his chin and fingers. He flayed Guardian’s dagger from his forearm and would have found another place to carve if Lian hadn’t ripped his knife from his hands and flung it into the forest.

  The Farlander heaved him up and carried him to the pond. The water glowed and whirled, rich with luminescence. Whitt staggered into the freezing fluidity and lay down, sinking beneath the surface. The light retracted and surged back, clung to his skin, and burrowed into his flesh. His wounds burned. Luminescence swirled with his blood, entered his veins, and lit him like a brand. He rose for a breath and sank again, eyes open, his vision filled with divine brightness.

  The world spoke to him, not with words but emotion, an ancient message extending back through eternal time. His blood leached out, blending with the planet’s soul, every fiber connected across the land and water and air, the living and dead. The world drew on his life, tasted its richness, and integrated him into the pattern. Life surged around him and exploded into him, unstoppable and larger than he and Sim and Rose, all of them forever part of the whole. The sensation was love, but not the feeling of love. All the emotions, fear and sadness, joy and pleasure, anger, and passion blended into the rich and poignant elixir of life.

  He gasped for breath and floated, his irises reflecting the three moons and a night drowned in stars. The fire in his veins abated and the sting in his wounds faded. The owl called its lonely song. He closed his eyes and rested in the cold light.

  ***

  Tor had always suffered its Cull Tarr preachers, adventurers, and fugitives, but they numbered few. A party of sunbaked seafarers trimmed in scarlet stuck in every memory like an infected splinter. The handsome woman with them—dressed in white, her coppery hair adorned with pearls—could only be Vianne.

  The time for her to die was long overdue.

  The murderers had traversed the pass with the thaw and backtracked three days later. No one recalled seeing a girl, and though they refrained from airing their suspicions, their averted eyes made clear that they assumed her dead. He refused to accept the possibility. They hadn’t buried Tev or Sim. If Rose were dead, her body would have rested with theirs. And why would they travel so far to kill her? In the deepest core of him, he trusted that she lived. The Shiplord wanted her or Catling, one or both. He berated himself for his nearsightedness, bringing her to Elan-Sia. If he’d only listened to Sim…

  He knocked on the door to Guardian’s brick quarters. Lodan answered and whistled through his bushy beard. “Holy buttered assbenders. Looks like you lost a brawl with a crag bear.”

  Whitt glanced down at his forearms. The luminescence in the pond had stemmed his bleeding and closed his wounds, but he wore a pattern of rough scabs. Memories of Bromel and Shafter shaped the fractal designs, and beneath them, Sim and all those he’d loved and lost coursed through his veins. “Sim’s dead, Lodan. A group of Cull Tarr jacks stole Rose.”

  “Oh, hell.” Lodan stepped aside. “I don’t have the words, Whitt. How can we help?”

  “A terran horse, a fast one.”

  “Take it. You’re a guardian. It’s yours.”

  “I’m not anymore.” He uncovered the raw red patch on his forearm where the needled dagger once defined his home and identity. “I don’t know what’s ahead, but it’s better if I act alone without ties to Guardian. You’re not in good stead with the Shiplord.”

  “A fisherman with a mean streak.” The man narrowed his eyes. “Don’t believe we’d stand with you?”

  “It’s not that. I just don’t know what’s coming. If the day arrives when I need Guardian, I’ll welcome the company.”

  “Make them bleed, Whitt.”

  “Rose first. Then they’ll pay.”

  With the Farlander horse stabled, he saddled a bay. By nightfall, he crested the pass. Lack of sleep wore his endurance down to a nub, and he nodded in the saddle. His enemy rode two days ahead of him, more if they’d left Tor the same afternoon they’d killed Sim. Everything depended on whether Guardian held them. They’d gotten through the gates once, but wouldn’t again if someone spotted Rose. How or where did they hide her?

  He rode down the track in darkness, the moons submerged in amassing storm clouds, the mare spooked by the narrow trail and loose rock. Rain fell in fat drops and blew west. He walked the steep declines, guiding the bay with soft coaxing, his own jointless legs threatening his ankles. When the track began to level, he mounted, flicked the reins, and shut his eyes, drifting with the sway of the saddle.

  The horse snorted, waking him. A young crag bear moseyed across the trail and disappeared into the forest. The mounting sun glittered through the trees, but dawn had brightened enough for riding hours ago. Whitt took a bearing, worried he’d slept away part of the night in the same place. “Time to go.” He heeled the bay away from the patch of grass cornering its attention.

  By the time he reached Guardian’s south gate, twilight painted the peaks in shades of blue. Sentries unbarred the doors at his shout, and he rode through.

  “Has the commander returned?”

  “Whitt?” The guard squinted. “What happened to you?”

  “Did a group of Cull Tarr come through heading north, a red-haired woman with them?

  “Two morning’s ago. They didn’t feel welcome.”

  Whitt’s shoulders sagged. He wouldn’t catch them until they stopped running. “Was Rose riding with them?”

  “Little Rose? No.” A gray-bearded veteran shook his head. “We would have noticed, Whitt. What’s going on?”

  “Sim is dead, and they stole Rose. I need the commander.”

  “You’ll want Nordin. At the citadel.”

  The implications of that simple instruction took root. Jagur hadn’t returned from the north. “Any word from the commander?”

  The man’s gaze wandered down the slope to the stone walls of the fortress city. “We heard Jagur’s a prisoner in Elan-Sia.”

  Whitt heaved in a breath. “Is Tavor here?”

  The guardian shook his head. “Sorry to tell you, Whitt, the Cull Tarr killed him in Ava-Grea. The night the queen died.”

  Whitt hung his head, the news draining the last of his strength. “And Cale?”

  “Around. Head up and see Nordin first.”

  Tapping his heels to the horse’s flanks, he rode down to the stable, endured more questions, and dragged his flagging body to the citadel.

  “Captain Nordin?” he asked at the door.

  “Commander’s office.” The guardian winced. “What happened to you?”

  “Crag bear.”

  Jagur’s office perched at the tower’s peak. Whitt started up, each step a chore, his feet leaden. He passed the guest quarters where sweet memories of the woman and child he loved haunted the recesses of his heart. Guardian had sheltered them, a place and time they’d felt happy and safe.

  At the commander’s door, he knocked. “Captain Nordin, it’s Whitt.”

  The door swung open, and instead of Nordin, Catling looked up at him. “Whitt, where’s Rose?”

  He stepped back, the sight of her releasing a deluge of sorrow and overwhelming guilt. He hadn’t even begun to consider what he’d say to her, and his words emptied his chest. “They stole her. They killed Sim.”

  Catling melted against him. Her arms circled his body, her sobs shook him, and the warmth of her healing touch saved him from crumbling.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Vianne peered in her mirror and sighed at the haggard woman staring back. The last ten days had frayed her nerves. The child’s influence whirled like a c
yclone, uprooting any inkling of control. Though sorrow persisted in the whipping emotion, the dominant feeling pulsing from the small frame was fury—pure, white-hot rage. The knots in Vianne’s neck tightened.

  Their flight from the Far Wolds had felt frantic, and she hadn’t slept more than nine hours in three days. She’d put Rose into an influenced sleep, and they transported her through Tor and Guardian in a pannier’s basket slung over a horse’s back. When the child was awake, Vianne kept her distance.

  Otherwise, their return to Ava-Grea had proceeded smoothly. Three days later, exhausted, she curled on her bed and stared at the wall. She’d locked Rose in her room, abandoned her to cry and scream herself to sleep. It wouldn’t surprise her to learn the shrill noise carried through the tiers.

  At times, Rose’s influence felt deliberate, that the child wished to inflict fear and pain, to punish them all for her suffering. At other times, her emotions seemed to leak into the air, unintentional and randomly dispersed. Vianne met every deluge with love, joy, and pleasure. Sometimes it worked and other times not, as if Rose could discern false feelings from genuine sentiment.

  A knock on her outer door startled her. Who was it this time? Falco Linc come to impress her into another ruthless duty? Or had the other doyen returned to badger her with more questions? She’d resurfaced to their utter bewilderment, and for a day, Dalcoran doted like a guilty man who’d earned a reprieve. Brenna and Neven hovered, but the genuine concern expressed by their attention felt more like judgment, especially concerning Rose.

  She’d told Linc and the doyen to let Rose adjust to the changes, to give the two of them time without interference. The girl certainly wasn’t useful in her current state.

  Her servant’s worried voice reached her through the wall, followed by a man’s insistent response. The wailing continued. Irritated, she pushed herself up and opened her door.

  Kadan frowned at her. “Kidnapping? This is a new low, Vianne. Stealing babies from their families?”

  “She’s not a baby.” Vianne pressed her hands to her ears and marched down the hall to her salon.

  “My regrets for misrepresenting her years. She’s reached the elderly age of three and a half.”

  “Do you think this is easy?” She spun on him. “Do you believe I enjoy this?”

  “Let me take her, Vianne. Let me come in at night or when you’re in council. You’ve done your bidding. Let me steal her out of here.” He rested his hands on the back of a chair while she paced. “This isn’t right. You know this won’t be the end of it. Catling will kill you.”

  “I can’t defy them, Kadan. They don’t care about her or you or me or Catling or any of us. You take her, and they’ll find her even if it means trampling over Minessa’s body. They do as they wish no matter who is in their way.”

  That stopped him. “What of your vow to Ellegeance?” he asked.

  She spat her words through gritted teeth. “My vow is to the Shiplord. As is yours.”

  “Not in our hearts.” The accusation in his eyes dared her to say otherwise. “Your choices have always put Ellegeance first.”

  “You would break your oath?” She ceased her pacing.

  He exhaled a huff, the corner of his lip hinting at a mocking smile. “You don’t think I have? You don’t believe we all have?”

  Her eyes tightened, weighing his words. A favorite of Dalcoran, she didn’t fully trust him. She’d lost faith in her longtime peer, suspected the worse, and didn’t know how to gauge Brenna and Neven. The Cull Tarr frightened her, impervious to influence and ruthless in the pursuit of their goals. Perhaps they were the only ones faithful to their words.

  “You put us all in danger, Kadan.” She steeled her shoulders. “The Cull Tarr will do as they please, even if that means destroying a child. Rose will never be safe out there. I can protect her, help her understand her power, train her, and teach her how to stay alive.”

  “Like you protected Catling?”

  The words stung. “You have no idea.”

  “Don’t I?” He wiped a hand over his face. “Rose will be a piece in your game of power, like I was, like Catling was. Influence is a curse, and now we have the Cull Tarr to contend with.”

  “You should leave now.” The wailing in Rose’s room had ceased, and silence crowded into the empty space.

  “We’re not done with this, Vianne.” He turned and strode out.

  She wavered. Jagur’s life depended on her choices. Rose would adjust. If Catling fulfilled her role with care, she could serve the Shiplord with her daughter. Vianne covered her eyes and cringed at her attempt at self-deception.

  “Yes, we are done, Kadan.” She had sworn a vow.

  ***

  “You must obey and deliver her, Vianne.” Falco Linc stood behind the same chair Kadan had leaned on the previous day. Before she’d betrayed him, before the Cull Tarr had locked him away. “I too believe the decision is rushed, but it is not my choice. With the blessings of the Founders, the Shiplord rules.”

  She spun, a hand slashing the air as she shouted, “You have no idea what you ask. You have no inkling of the pain and how that will affect a child.”

  “I’m certain you can mitigate her pain.” He frowned at her. “Use your influence.”

  “That’s just it.” Her eyes bulged. “I can’t heal her. Influence will ruin any impact on her eye.”

  He sighed. “It must be risked, Vianne. If you are unwilling, I shall order my guards to transport her.”

  “No! I will do it.” She left Linc in her salon. Blinking back her tears, she donned a smile and opened the door to Rose’s room. Her body tensed, expecting a barrage of anger or pain, and nothing came.

  Rose sat on the bed, admiring pictures in a book. Her dark hair was pinned up as Vianne had styled it the night before, their first tentative practice at peace.

  A light feather of cheer tickled Vianne’s chest, a gesture of kindness and concern that broke her heart. She settled on the edge of the bed, mirroring the influence with an extra dose of ease. “An interesting book?”

  “I found it in the cupboard.”

  Vianne peeked at the cover. “That belonged to your mother, Catling, when she was a little girl.”

  Rose’s lower lip pushed forward, and Vianne both saw and bore the sadness. “The Ambassador would like to give you a beautiful eye, as lovely as your mother’s. A flower, a rose, like your name.”

  The child’s face brightened. “Can we do it now?”

  “Yes,” Vianne smiled. “That’s what I’ve come to tell you. We’re going to see a man named Markim-Ava. He might be a little frightening because he looks a bit like a grumpy old troll, but he’s kind.”

  Rose hopped from the bed. “I’m ready.”

  Hand in hand, they strolled through the potted garden, Linc and a guard tagging along behind. Brightest Night and Summertide lay days away and soon a season of heat would raise the swamp’s fetid stink.

  Vianne maintained the gentle flow of influence and knocked on the Poisoner’s door. After what seemed a decade of waiting, Markim cracked it open enough to peek out with one bulbous eye. He scowled at her before letting the two of them enter. His crooked finger poked Linc in the chest. “Not you.” The ambassador stepped back, and Markim slapped the panel, closing the door in his face.

  “My respects, Markim-Ava,” Vianne said. “This is Rose.”

  “I’m withholding my respects,” Markim said and peered down at the girl, his back hunched, the sparse white hair atop his head weedier than usual. “You remind me of your mother.”

  “I’m a Farlander,” she said.

  “I can see the resemblance.” He headed down the corridor to his steel chamber. Vianne hadn’t stood in that room in two decades. Yet she remembered it vividly: the polished metal tables and knives, the teacup pools of distilled influence, each a separate color, the strong smell of disinfectant.

  Three young men and a blond woman stood by the pools, dressed in white. “My needlers,” Markim said.
“You have all of us today, every one of us who knows how this magic works.”

  “Why all of you?”

  Markim eyed her over his pitted nose. “Do you know what your masters are demanding?”

  She avoided his eyes. “I told them, but they refused to listen.”

  “You know this may destroy the…” He jerked his thumb at Rose. “Little bodies and minds aren’t equipped for this. And the woads may do nothing at all; the mother’s shield is inborn. Best case, she’ll survive with access to influence she’s too young to handle.”

  “She was born an influencer, Markim.”

  He scratched his nose and set his eyes on Rose. “Pinch Vianne.”

  Vianne flinched and glared at them both, rubbing her hip. Markim winked at Rose, and she giggled. The Poisoner turned to Vianne, and the mirth vanished from his face. “You and your masters command me to do this, Influencer, it’s the end. Everything’s going to Founders’ Hell.”

  “We haven’t a choice.”

  He grunted. “Don’t fool yourself, doyen. That’s a coward’s excuse every time. We always have choices.”

  She shut her mouth, refusing to refute a truth chiming with the clarity of a crystal bell. In his poisonous lair, he could indulge in uncontested righteousness. He had no inkling of the sacrifices that accompanied choices outside in the tiers.

  With his wrinkled hand, he patted the table. Vianne lifted Rose and smiled. “Are you ready for your flower? It’s going to hurt a little.”

  Rose’s eyes widened, her mouth drooping. Markim scowled at Vianne and rumpled Rose’s hair. “Don’t you worry.” From his cabinet of supplies, he withdrew a small silver flask and filled a tiny metal cup with luminescent liquid, blood red and shiny as firestone. “Sweet as ripe lissom.”

  Vianne stopped him. “You can’t interfere or it won’t work.”

  “I can interfere or I won’t work.” He hunched down like a boulder impossible to budge. “You are mistaken if you believe this old man will make a child howl.”

  “What is it?” Vianne glanced at the gleaming liquid.