Kari's Reckoning (The Rose Shield Book 4)

by D. Wallace Peach

“Deep sleep, Influencer. Deep as death.”

  Vianne paused. If the woad didn’t work, would it matter? She’d warned Linc of the possibility. She nodded to Rose. “Drink up.”

  The girl held the cup and first tasted the liquid with the tip of her tongue, then swallowed the rest. For a heartbeat, she looked as though she’d vomit, cheeks puffed and chin drawn back. The color drained from her face, her eyes rolled, and she collapsed. Vianne gasped at the ashen visage of death.

  “Go sit over there,” Markim ordered. She followed orders, sinking to a stool by the cabinet. The open flask sat on the metal surface. She sniffed the fragrant contents and screwed on the top.

  Markim and his assistants strapped Rose to the table and began carving into the petal-soft skin. At the first sight of blood, Vianne twisted away. She covered her mouth, holding in the horror and denying her tears. What was she doing? What had she done? Guilt erupted as a bloody knife skittered across the table and clattered to the floor at her feet. For three bells, they worked, slicing the elegant lines, pounding mallets of tiny needles, and pressing wads of soft cloth to the baby’s right eye, each soaked in different shades of luminescence.

  Vianne listened until her own weeping filled her ears. Kadan had spoken the truth. They were a long way from done with this. And Markim’s warning rang clear—it had to end.”

  ***

  Dalcoran stood in Vianne’s doorway. “Follow me.”

  “Where?” She’d just crawled from bed and dressed after a late night applying cold compresses to Rose’s swollen face. The work had shocked her when she finally beheld it, the rose exquisitely drawn, though Markim hadn’t chosen red, the color of death. Rose’s flower was violet, the luminescent color of healing. He had peered into Vianne’s eyes with an expression of defiance and sorrow that forced her to turn away. She’d said nothing, picked Rose up and gone home.

  “I’d prefer to show you.” Dalcoran swept an open palm to the door, guiding her out. Her anxiety piqued as she stepped into the midmorning warmth of the potted garden. A distance off by the central fountain, Brenna and Neven awaited them. She paused and Dalcoran lowered his voice, “The Poisoner’s. Before the Cull Tarr find out.”

  “Find out what?” Panic bloomed in her chest.

  “I don’t know,” Dalcoran replied. “Come with us.”

  “Give me a moment.” She spun back into her home and hurried down the hallway to trouble her servant. “Listen for Rose. She’s asleep. I’ll be back soon.”

  She retraced her steps to the garden and followed on the other doyen’s heels. Dalcoran grimaced with each rushed step until he stood before the Poisoner’s hall and tapped the panel. The door slid aside, and once they’d entered, Neven locked them in. Something impure had replaced the sharp smell of disinfectant, and Vianne wrinkled her nose.

  Dalcoran led the way down the corridor to Markim’s cavernous chamber, the echo of their footsteps ominous in the silence. “This is the way I found them.” In the steel room, the bodies of Markim’s four assistants lay in a neat row on the floor. Markim was dead on his table with an expression of smug satisfaction. A note rested on his chest beneath his hands, easy to read; its messy letters scrawled The End.

  “Were they murdered?” Brenna's face paled.

  “No,” Vianne whispered, feeling sick. “It’s possible he poisoned his assistants. But Markim chose this. He told me if I forced him to needle Rose, it would be the end. He warned me, and this is what he meant.”

  Neven checked each body for a pulse. “Who else knows his trade?”

  “No one,” Vianne replied. “They’re all dead.”

  “Markim drained the luminescence,” Dalcoran said from the platform supporting the round pools. He descended the steps, bent like an old man. “If he destroyed the distilling equipment, this is indeed the end.”

  The doyen headed for the back room. Vianne walked by the cabinet and slipped the silver flask of red liquid into her pocket. She followed them through the door. Markim’s personal furnishings crowded a tidy corner of the room. The long tables that once held his experiments, his tubes and pipes and beakers, and jars, were empty.

  “If the Cull Tarr didn’t do this,” Brenna asked, “where did it all go?”

  “The pylon.” Vianne swung to her peers. “He told me everything would go to Founders’ Hell.”

  “Can we rebuild?” Brenna asked.

  “Possibly,” Dalcoran said. “For now, we hide this from the Cull Tarr. I don’t know what they’d do if they discovered our guild is doomed.”

  Vianne peered at him, the deception a response she hadn’t anticipated. “I agree. I ought to return to Rose. Will someone see to the bodies?”

  Dalcoran nodded. “I’ll arrange it.”

  Gazing straight ahead, Vianne strode through the steel chamber, down the corridor, and out the door. Only then did she breathe. Everything happened too fast to process, the tiers in disarray, the Cull Tarr asserting their power, her guild at risk, lives threatened and lost. Even sacred oaths, the glue that held them all together on the same path had turned brittle and cracked. Coerced oaths held the adhesive power of air.

  She entered her home, slipped off her boots, and peeked in Rose’s room. The covers lay in a rumpled heap, the bed empty. She trod down the carpeted hall, expecting to greet the child in the salon. Her servant dusted the sideboard and arranged the teacups, her eyes puffy.

  “Where’s Rose?” Vianne asked.

  The woman sniffled. “I remember her mother, and this seems dreadfully wrong, doyen. Don’t these children suffer enough?”

  Vianne balked at the disrespect, but that didn’t answer her question. She swallowed. “Where is Rose?”

  The duster in her hands like a feathered bouquet, the woman faced her. “The ambassador took her away. He said she belongs to the Shiplord and will be raised by the Cull Tarr. He said you’ve served your master well, but, Vianne-Ava, I think you are cruel.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Brightest Night.

  The ferry flew through the chop at the confluence of the Blackwater and Slipsilver. The water tugged, heaved, and spun, and the ferry didn’t care. It rode the river current as if the whitewater were as placid as a lake. The twilit landscape mutated rapidly from the Fangwold’s rolling foothills. The captain and crew marveled at the swift ease of the trip when the vessel spilled into the swamp’s lush, green watery world.

  Catling reached for Whitt’s hand and said nothing. No words possessed the magic necessary to soothe his grief or quell his anger. She’d healed his wounds, but he wanted no interference in his emotions, and she’d honored the request. She wouldn’t do otherwise.

  His latticed scars bestowed on him the visage of a monster. Every inch of his body within his reach bore the signatures of despair. They covered him, concealing and protecting a raw and bitter heart. Some might fear him, respect him, or think him mad, but she witnessed only his pain and didn’t require her eye to do so.

  Worry over Rose consumed her thoughts, a constant companion during their days of travel. Maybe the Cull Tarr sought Rose for her innate power. But more likely, Rose served as the bait to lure Catling into their clutches. What about her shield so intrigued them if they were immune? Was their advantage weakening as the Cull Tarr invaded Ellegean taverns, swilled their spirits, and ate from their impure markets? Or did the Shiplord wish her to shield his Ellegean allies and block his enemies? Perhaps, he simply desired her as an oddity, a trophy wrested from a dead queen.

  “We’ll find her,” she whispered, more to herself than to Whitt.

  He tilted his head and studied her. “Your oath to Lelaine is over. You aren’t bound to anyone.”

  The strangeness of the shift hadn’t sunk in. “I believe I’m the only influencer who never gave a vow to the Shiplord. That may be why he wants me so badly. A matter of pride.”

  “He can’t have you, Catling.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Our priority is Rose.”

  The twilit tier city gr
ew in size as they neared. An array of Cull Tarr ships moored beyond the piers, though less than the night she’d fled south on Kadan’s ferry. Whitt angled his chin and pointed in the swamp’s direction. A lone rafter paddled through the chasing fog. “Raker?”

  “He said one day he would travel with me to Elan-Sia. Do you think Rose is already gone?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll find out soon.”

  She watched the raft glide across the current. “He seems to know when we’re near, doesn’t he. Do you believe in his ghost?”

  “She’s no ghost,” he said, the certainty in his voice startling her. He got his feet under him. “I’ll inform the captain of a possible departure for Elan-Sia.”

  While Whitt made arrangements, Catling slipped the eyepatch around her head and positioned it over her eye. They’d both dressed as riverfolk. A strange pair, she had to admit, covered up as if it were Harvest, not the first day of Summertide.

  The ferry swung around the city and found a berth in the northbound piers should they call for a rapid escape. Wrapped in her shield, she climbed from the boat. Whitt joined her, his staff serving as a walking stick, and should the need arise, as a weapon.

  They headed up the pier to the floating dock. Little blue Misanda and yellow Clio glided in the deepening sky, and pink Sogul squatted on the caliph’s highest branches. Brightest Night meant moonlit markets and an extra helping of revelry. The swamp hadn’t begun to stink, and the air stroked her with balmy fingers.

  “I’m going to kill Vianne,” he murmured, so softly she barely heard.

  “No, Whitt.” She grasped his sleeve and pulled until he faced her. He scowled, and she resisted the urge to soothe him. “We may need Vianne to find Rose. Once we have Rose, you can wreak your revenge; I won’t blame you for a fraction of a moment.”

  “Catling, she murdered Sim. She spoke to her, smiled at her, and killed her anyway.”

  The anguish in his blue eyes pierced Catling’s heart. “Please, Whitt,” she whispered. “Rose first.”

  He rubbed a hand down his scarred face and nodded. “Let’s go.”

  The milling crowds on the dock and first market tier lent them a veil of anonymity, easing their passage between clusters of Cull Tarr jacks and random preachers. They crossed the promenade and disappeared into the deeper, quieter shadows beneath the second tier.

  Catling tugged her key from her tunic as they slipped into the alcove of a maintenance pylon. She tried it and sighed when the latch clicked.

  The pylon’s interior hummed. Tepid air rose from its depths, and luminescence danced upward in liquid flames of color, brighter than moonlight. Whitt stood beside her at the rail, reaching a hand out over the precipice. She almost spoke a warning when suddenly the light reached toward him from the glass cylinder. Her breath caught as it caressed his hand and forearm and then withdrew. “Raker’s ghost,” he said and started up the coiling ramp.

  Without a word, she followed, wondering at the man ahead of her. She’d known him longer than any other soul, remembered the gentle and brave companion of their youth. Life had forged that sweet boy into a hard man, one she still loved but no longer knew.

  ***

  Whitt climbed the narrow ramp. Every so often, he kicked a piece of metal or glass, and the shards tinkled as they vanished into Founders’ Hell. His temper cooled, tamed by the kari’s strange touch. Before that caress, he’d ached for blood. Blinding rage had clouded every choice but pounding Vianne’s head with the butt of his staff. He’d fumed at Catling for wresting a commitment from him, for appealing to reason, for reminding him there was someone to live for.

  What compelled him to reach for the light? How had the light extended toward him beyond the boundary of the circulating tube? The impulse had startled him, and he grasped for answers. What if the kari existed beyond luminescence? He’d thought of it as the world’s blood, but more than blood infused a body. Sim had told him the world was sentient and now he questioned if he finally understood.

  The spiral ramp ended on a platform at the twelfth tier. He waited for Catling, opened the door, and slipped into the alcove. The potted garden stretched across the tier’s center between the pylons, no level above to bathe the space in shadow. The trio of moons cast the trees in silver and painted their silhouettes on the walls. He expected to see guards, Cull Tarr jacks, or patrols. Silent and still, the tier appeared vacant. He unsheathed his knife at the odd emptiness.

  “Whitt?” Catling whispered.

  “Something’s wrong.”

  Sounds of conversation reached him before he spotted movement across the garden. He recognized Dalcoran’s measured tone and stiff posture, then Vianne’s cream jacket. The four doyen strolled near a glittering fountain with one other, a Cull Tarr by the exaggerated shoulders of his long coat.

  Crouched beside him, Catling removed her eyepatch and touched his arm. He breathed, loosening his grip on the staff. Fighting five of them, even if Catling shielded him, wouldn’t save Rose. Only patience.

  The conversation frittered away with bows and departures until Vianne remained with the lone Cull Tarr man. Whitt gestured at the stranger and whispered. “Can you hear?”

  “It’s Ambassador Linc,” she replied but shook her head at their conversation.

  Sharp words spat from Vianne’s lips, and the two parted, Vianne striding toward her chambers alone. A new presence appeared around the corner. He glanced over a shoulder at the receding ambassador, and followed her, a glint of moonlight flashing in his hand.

  Catling gasped. Whitt sprang up and sprinted into the garden. Too far away to intercept the assassin, he shouted in warning, “A knife!”

  Vianne turned and spotted him. Her face morphed from fearful confusion to wide-eyed, gaping horror. If Catling weren’t shielding him, he’d be curled on the ground, screaming. Vianne backed away, and he charged toward her, the terror on her face empowering.

  Movement to her left spun her. Men grunted as Ambassador Linc bulled into her assailant, the two of them slamming to the tier. The offender’s knife flashed upward, catching Linc in the face as he rolled off and hit the wall.

  Whitt tossed his blade and gripped his staff two-handed, the weapon’s reach to his advantage. The assassin wrestled free of the downed ambassador and crouched. In two steps, Whitt focused his wrath, and with all his strength, swung a lethal blow at the man’s head. The staff struck and skull cracked. The bloody knife skittered into the shadows.

  Heaving in a breath, Whitt stepped back. His first kill juddered through his body. The first one that belonged to him without ambiguity. One he intended, and for which he bore not a shred of remorse.

  The ambassador sagged against a wall, his jaw cupped in his hand, blood dripping through his fingers. He raised his other palm, a feeble gesture if he meant to ward off an attack.

  “Bring him,” Catling beckoned, her voice scarcely above a whisper. She held the doyen’s wrist, the reason for Vianne’s silence.

  “Get up, Linc,” Whitt ordered. He pointed to the dead man. “Grab one arm.”

  With a hand pressed to his bleeding face, Linc gripped the dead man’s sleeve. Whitt snared the other arm, and they dragged the stranger into Vianne’s quarters. Whitt untied the scarlet kerchief from the man’s neck. He herded Linc into the salon, pushed him into a chair, and pitched the kerchief to Vianne’s feet.

  Vianne sat stiff-backed with her hands in her lap. She stared at him, face as pale as her clothing.

  “Where’s Rose?” he asked.

  “Elan-Sia,” Catling replied, that information already gathered. “On her way to the Shiplord.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Two days.” Vianne swallowed. “The Cull Tarr tried to kill me.”

  Whitt didn’t care. He grabbed a handcloth from the sideboard, dipped it in a pitcher of luminescence, and tossed it to Linc. The ambassador stared at it, then forced it to his face. Whitt turned back to Vianne. “Why? Why did you do it? Why steal a little girl? Why kill Sim?” />
  “I didn’t kill her. I didn’t have a choice about Rose.” Tears escaped her eyes. “I made a mistake.”

  “A mistake? That’s what you think this is?”

  “They said they’d kill Jagur and Gannon. They’d send someone else. I thought I could at least protect Rose. I didn’t intend anyone to die. I planned to put Sim to sleep, but she fought us. Rose used her influence to keep me away. By the time she let me approach, it was over. The Cull Tarr—”

  “Enough!” he shouted. It all rang true; he could picture it, but he’d no desire to hear it.

  “You’re going to help us get her back.” Catling studied the two prisoners.

  “I’ll help you,” Vianne said, “willingly. Kadan’s locked in his quarters on the eleventh tier. I’ll request his release and bring him here. No tricks.”

  “Linc and I will get him,” Whitt said.

  Catling squatted down in front of the ambassador. “You saved my life once, and tonight, you saved Vianne’s. Why?”

  The ambassador looked up, his handsome features smeared with blood and twisted by pain. “The Shiplord is a man of law. He wouldn’t order assassinations or condone them. I believe there are those among the Cull Tarr who find him too tolerant of evil.”

  “Of influencers.” She cocked her head. “And Farlanders.”

  Linc exhaled. “I’m not your enemy. Our faith—”

  “I don’t care about your faith.” Catling reached for his wrist. “What I care about is my child. Now is your chance to save your own life, Ambassador. The Shiplord desires my power, and I’m willing to compromise. I will trade places with Rose and serve Tull Airon faithfully.”

  “No!” Whitt snapped, his anger flaring. He wouldn’t allow it.

  “Yes.” She gazed up at him, and the welling of love, comfort, and reassurance she sent through him staunched his protest, even as it incensed him.

  She swiveled back to face Linc. “You will broker the deal and deliver us safely to your Shiplord. If you refuse or fail or betray us, consider the deceased Ambassador Kest under the ramp. I will hollow out the souls of every Cull Tarr I meet, including Tull Airon, and I will start with you. I give you my oath.”