Kari's Reckoning (The Rose Shield Book 4)

by D. Wallace Peach

  Two rivermasters turned in for the night, leaving the third to watch over the waterdragons. They nodded to Whitt as they passed, the scars on their skin similar to his though less dramatic and fewer in number. She wanted to ask about them, but his question came first, “Catling, did you kill them all?”

  She cringed at the taint of horror in his voice. “The same as the fane.”

  “I don’t mean to judge you.”

  “With this eye, it’s all or nothing, Whitt. It’s my single weapon against the Cull Tarr unless I’m able to touch their skin. But I can’t direct it; I don’t know its reach or if I’d hollow out my own soul if I’m not shielded. I still can’t shield myself and others at the same time. That skill has always eluded me.”

  “What happens?”

  “I see their feelings, the true ones, a thousand times more nuanced than the most subtle combinations of the finest influence. Our genuine emotions are wondrous, Whitt. They fashion who we are, from our simplest motivations to our most passionate desires. Without them, we’re no longer human. Even survival doesn’t matter.” She swallowed, a repulsive tang rising in her throat at the ferocity of her talent.

  “You sever their feelings?” He looked at her askance, his scars deepening his frown.

  “There’s nothing to sever, Whitt. It’s not like influence. I simply erase them. In one act of intention, they all disappear. All that remains is vacant bodies. I remove their souls.”

  She waited for his disgust, his censure, the ugliness of her capacity to kill to repulse him, but he held her tighter. “You carry a burden I wouldn’t want to bear, but Rose is safe because of you. Ultimately, none of those people on that ship cared about a little girl’s life, even Vianne.”

  “It’s not that simple,” she said, a tear dewing her cheek.

  “It never is.”

  She clutched his hand where it hung over her shoulder. The scars formed thin lines compared to the deeper cuts on the rest of his body and face. “And your scars?”

  His gaze fell to his forearm propped on a knee. “I cut those the night we found Sim and lost Rose. I didn’t feel it; it didn’t hurt enough to erase the pain, so I kept carving and bleeding with no desire to stop. The Farlanders finally grabbed the knife and threw me into a pond of luminescence as bright as the sun. I should have died from blood loss or cold, but neither killed me.”

  “When did you discover you could manipulate the water and land?”

  “I think I only move water.” He stared at the gleaming Slipsilver beyond the bow. “I felt a connection to the river when we rode it down from Guardian to Ava-Grea. The contours and flow made sense to me. I understood its shape, speed, and movement along the riverbed and used that knowledge to hasten our travel.”

  “The captain was surprised at how easily he handled the rapids.”

  “I had no idea if I’d actually done anything. Then I touched the light in the pylon, and I understood it was real. When the Cull Tarr raised their bows against us, I pushed the water around the ferry. I heaved it under you, not by force of will, but by joining with it, if that makes sense. The waterdragons helped us, but I didn’t control them either. They knew to swim there.”

  “You moved more than water, Whitt. You changed the mud and banks.”

  “I don’t think so. I shifted the water, and it moved the land. It’s connected. And I didn’t do it alone either. Sim showed me that the world is conscious, like a body, all its parts interdependent and connected.”

  “Was Sim gifted?”

  “She made things grow.”

  Catling closed her eyes and tamped down the bitterness of a comparison she couldn’t help drawing. Sim made things grow, and she made them die.

  Whitt seemed not to notice. “There’s so much we don’t know, Catling, about this world and our place, if we even belong here at all. The one thing more I can say is that whoever “she” is who Raker talks to, I sensed her presence. She’s the soul of this planet.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Gannon dragged a chair from the citadel and tipped it back on the rear legs against the stone exterior. The trip up the Slipsilver and South Rivers had required two weeks, and he’d healed. His body had been mangled and healed so many times he was developing a healthy respect for influence and wondered what he’d do without it.

  In a patch of grass, Catling and Whitt played a tagging game with Rose. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen Catling laugh. Had he ever? For him, for a number of them, her eye had changed the courses of their lives. For better or worse, he couldn’t say. Life didn’t unfurl in a linear fashion but in a tangled web, each choice connected to another, to the whole. But for Catling, that eye was her bane, always had been.

  As far as his life? He would never have loved Lelaine, never been tortured, imprisoned, and chained. He might still be thieving and enforcing with Tiler in the tiers, or High Ward Algar might have killed him years ago. Maybe Vianne, the woman he often wished dead would be alive. She’d saved his life, leaving a complex legacy.

  Catling caught Rose, not with a tag, but with a full-body hug, and Whitt growled triumphantly, grabbing them both in his arms. Rose threw her head back and laughed with childlike glee. Happiness prevailed after a rough start. He hoped he proved that resilient.

  The chasing game ended and a leather ball-toss between Rose and Whitt began. A sunny smile on her face, Catling hiked up the gentle incline and sat on the patchy grass beside him. “How are your aches today?”

  “Gone.” He watched Whitt throw the ball, trying to place it in Rose’s cupped hands. It bounced and fell between her arms. She picked it up and threw it wide, making Whitt run for it before it rolled all the way to Mur-Vallis. “Are you sure that violet rose didn’t have any effect?”

  “I don’t think so. She’s a powerful and untrained influencer, but it’s all her own. Her ability to heal may surpass Minessa’s. I’d like her to practice that skill and lose the others.” Catling hugged her knees. “She has a good heart. I thank Sim and Whitt for that.”

  “Will you stay here? Go south?”

  “I like this place. It feels safe, almost like home.” She closed her eyes and sighed, face tipped to the sun. “But the war with the Cull Tarr has only begun. Nordin told me they captured Nor-Bis. Kadan sent a bird from Mur-Vallis, sharing that the guild is in turmoil. The Founders elected Emer Tilkon to be the new Shiplord.”

  “I heard.” He grunted at the perfect example of Cull Tarr hypocrisy. The Protocols provided a guideline for an honest vote by the people. Designation of a leader by the gods was the antithesis of both the law and its spirit. “I’d be surprised if the gods’ decision wasn’t reinforced by some battling, blackmail, and negotiation.”

  “Not unlike Ellegeans.” Catling picked up a green pebble and tossed it into a tuft of grass.

  Whitt ambled up with Rose riding on his shoulders. “Someone needs to nibble before her lessons with Sanson.”

  “I’m ready.” Catling grasped Whitt’s hand for a lift up.

  Gannon’s chair rocked forward onto four legs. “Don’t forget, Jagur expects us at two bells.”

  “Join us for food?” Whitt asked.

  “No.” He waved them off, talk of war putting him in a foul mood. He returned to the room he shared with Whitt and took a nap.

  ***

  “Have a seat, Cale,” Jagur ordered. She brooded by his window, ornery as Tor’s caged crag bear. Tavor’s death hit Guardian with the full brunt of a Fangwold storm, and no one suffered the force harder than she. She would drink, fight, and thunder herself into an early death if he didn’t find something worthwhile for her to do. She scratched her short curls and sat, a scowl welded to her face and mood primed for a brawl.

  He handed a letter across the desk for her to read, and she handed it back. “I don’t know how to read.”

  “Well then,” he frowned. “I’ll tell you what it says. Lodan wants you back in the South Wolds. He—”

  “No, Sir,” she interrupted. �
��I’m in this fight with the Cull Tarr. I need it. I need to bash some heads and gut some bellies. Lodan does fine without me.”

  He grunted, the response exactly what he expected, her rage a close mirror of his own. And she was correct; Lodan did a spanking fine job without her. Relations in the Far Wolds came with a mountain of challenges but nothing giving him nightmares. Jagur had asked the lanky guardian to request her assistance, and so he did.

  “Fine,” he muttered, packing his pipe with his favorite Far Wolds blend. “You’re furious. Trust me; I know how it feels. But that’s where you’re headed, Cale. The south matters. Lives lost down there mattered. Tavor’s efforts there mattered. Lodan has a place for you, and that matters too.”

  “I need revenge,” she nearly shouted, fingers curled into a fist. “That’s all that matters to me.” She steeled her jaw, ignoring the emotion glistening in her eyes.

  “Well, you’re outnumbered,” he barked. “And I’m not rolling over to accommodate your death wish, or Tavor would haunt me to my grave. Like it or not, I’m protecting what mattered to him—you. I’m sending you south. You report to Lodan in a week, and you make peace a priority down there. It’s a whole lot better for me, for you, and for the Farlanders. We need the Far Wolds to be the least of our worries.”

  “Sir,” she pleaded. “Let me fight the Cull Tarr.”

  He shook his head. “Despise me if you wish, Cale, but you are one life I’m going to save because I can. Dismissed.”

  Her teeth gritted, she glared at him, got up, and stomped out. He lit his pipe and puffed out a cloud of smoke. A reckoning tugged at his consciousness too, but hotheaded revenge wouldn’t win a war. It would result in more dead guardians, and despite Cale’s misery, she had years of life ahead of her. If he got his way, she’d live them.

  His next decisions would be less straightforward. Another discussion of strategies awaited him on the second floor, and if he didn’t get himself organized, he’d be late. A knock on his door interrupted his search for his spectacles. “Enter.”

  He expected his peculiar little page with a reminder of the time. Yet, the face in the doorway was Cale’s. She gripped the dagger on her forearm in salute. Straightening behind his desk, he returned the honor. With a nod, she pivoted, and her footsteps echoed down the hallway.

  Mighty satisfied with himself, he scanned his office one last time for his eyewear and gave up. The chances that the next meeting would conclude with equal success bordered on nil, and his agreeable disposition soured with every tread down the coiling stair.

  His body still struggled to overcome the weakness of his time in captivity, and he’d refused the assistance of influence. Grief for Vianne had got its claws in him and wouldn’t let go. His fondness for her was a relic from half a lifetime ago. They’d both suffered their faults, stubborn and dedicated to Ellegeance and bonded to their guilds. At times, he wondered if he grieved more for what might have been than the reality of what was. At other times, the ache stabbed him through the heart with such despondency he wanted to die.

  The next meeting on his agenda entailed a discussion of the Cull Tarr aggression. He sucked on the pipe emitting a smog of smoke as his officers took their seats. They wrinkled their noses and grimaced, and he didn’t give a damn. He savored the familiar fragrance and the comfort of his pipe in his hands and lips. If he didn’t, they’d have something harsher than a cloud of smoke to endure.

  Gannon and Catling arrived with Whitt. Jagur needed Gannon there but wasn’t sure he wanted Catling, though he recognized her… talents. She’d killed Vianne. No one had told him so, but he knew it. He understood it and yet wondered. He didn’t blame her, but he did.

  Major Parso’s gavel hammered the table precisely at the bell. He ran through a number of quick items, shuffled his papers, and cleared his throat. “We’ve received confirmation that Nor-Bis has fallen to the Cull-Tarr. Rho-Dania continues to resist Tilkon’s efforts in the east, and by all estimates, she’s not inclined to relax her grip on the west to bring Rho-Dania to heel. She has twice the fleet in Nor-Bis, and the Fargrove is a larger, more navigable river than the Wiseling. It appears Bes-Strea is next.”

  “Thoughts?” Jagur puffed a cloud of blue smoke.

  Nordin slid an elaborate map of the realm across the table. “How does Ava-Grea stand?”

  “Little change.” Parso thumbed through his papers. “Kadan reports that they’re under the control of a Cull Tarr tier master, one Dalon Naut. The influencers cooperate in order to maintain a sense of normalcy and reduce the number of Cull Tarr jacks. The tier wards are nervous and hope to slide through the transition with minimal disruption.”

  “What was their reaction to the doyens’ deaths?” Catling asked.

  “Internal chaos,” Parso replied. “Kadan accepted one open position, and they’re seeking a fourth. He recommends that when we move on Ava-Grea, Catling accompany us.”

  “Her guild betrayed her.” Whitt crossed his arms. “And the Cull Tarr would like nothing better than her execution.”

  “If they need me, I’ll go.” Catling gazed at him. “I trust Guardian to keep me safe.”

  “Kadan’s in Mur-Vallis,” Nordin reminded them. “I suggest we get him back to Ava-Grea as soon as he can manage it. If we intend to recapture the city, we’ll need him to make sure we have the influencers’ cooperation.”

  “Or we need Catling’s shield,” Gannon said. “No doubt, that’s the reason behind Kadan’s request.”

  “It makes sense.” Catling sank back in her chair, and Whitt huffed.

  “Let’s move on.” Jagur adjusted his spectacles, confounded to find them perched on his nose. “What have we learned about the slaves?”

  With a wearisome sigh, Parso reshuffled his papers and extracted a thin stack. “Missing guardians.” He handed the pages to Jagur. “We eliminated those we know are deceased, and we lack any reliable information on abducted civilians. By all reckoning, the Cull Tarr shipped them to coastal settlements along the sea. Our chance of freeing them is unrealistic, poor at best.”

  Jagur drummed his fingers on his desk, scowling. The air in the room drowned in the grim truth. He decided not to ask for opinions because none of them would have any and the silence was already deafening. “Rescuing slaves will have to wait for terms.”

  “Assjackers,” Gannon muttered.

  “Let’s move on.” Jagur set aside his pipe. “Thoughts about Elan-Sia.”

  Nordin rose and leaned over the map. “It’s almost mid-Summertide. We believe a full season from now, Harvest’s Darkest Night, is the most advantageous time to retake Elan-Sia. Low tides and an absence of moonlight will leave navigation more difficult for the Cull Tarr. That means reclaiming Ava-Grea, securing Bes-Strea and, with some luck, beating them out of Nor-Bis before then. It’s a tall order.”

  “We stage a coordinated resistance across all the tiers,” Whitt said. “That would compromise the Cull Tarr’s ability to respond in force.”

  Jagur narrowed his eyes at Gannon. “A tier uprising is your specialty. Any noteworthy hurdles?”

  Gannon grimaced and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We don’t have a queen… or king. No one is in charge, and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn each city is making its own rules between the Cull Tarr tier masters, high wards, and influencers. Every effort we made to give the warrens a voice, every stride forward means nothing. The powerful in the tiers have no qualms about shoving our noses in the mud and walking across our backs.”

  “I’ll take that as your willingness to handle the tiers,” Jagur said.

  “Commit to some guarantees. Make it worth it to the warrens.”

  Parso pursed his lips. “With Lelaine-Elan’s death, no one has the power to issue new decrees.”

  “Well, someone needs to shoulder that responsibility.” Gannon looked around the table. “Or the Cull Tarr will pick off all nine provinces before they burn Guardian to ash.”

  His eyes on Jagur, Whitt leaned forward. “You could
lead us, Commander.”

  “Hell, I will.” Jagur almost fell back in his chair.

  “You could,” Catling agreed. “You hold the authority of Guardian and have the warriors to maintain control.”

  “Guardian was never meant to wield that power.” Jagur shook his head and reached for his pipe. “Military rule is a dangerous idea.”

  “There's no one else with the power,” Gannon slumped back, his arms crossed in a picture of stubbornness.

  “Gannon,” Catling suggested. “Lelaine announced her intention to bond. She stated it before her council. Gannon would have been our king.”

  “Ha!” Gannon rolled his eyes.

  Jagur studied him. Buried in the dismissive response, he witnessed grief and fury but no excitement, no avarice, no lust for power. Gannon didn’t favor it any more than he did, and in his book, that made him a fine choice. “You have the word of Lelaine’s councilors, the backing of the warrens and of Guardian.” He canted his head toward Catling. “Some support among the influencers, possibly a doyen or two. Save the tiers, Gannon, and you’ll demand some respect from the guilds.”

  Gannon scowled. “I want Cull Tarr fairness and equality, not their bastardization but the real thing. I don’t care about the rest. You hold the authority, Commander. Promise me that all Ellegeans will vote on their next leader, and I’ll keep the Cull Tarr up to their armpits in tier trouble for as long as you need me to.”

  “Agreed.”

  ***

  Catling spied Whitt and Rose sitting side by side on a low outcropping of rock near the steep pastures west of Guardian. They leaned into each other, lost in their discussion, the vista north absorbing their attention, and she weighed whether she should interrupt them.

  Whitt noticed her and waved her over. By the time she reached them, the discussion had ended, and Rose picked wildflowers that spattered the rocky soil. They grew with abandon and vibrated in the Summertide wind.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you two.”