The Dark Ferryman

by Jenna Rhodes

  The smile bled from Straightplow’s round face, and his side chop whiskers slanted downward as his expression fell. “Trouble, then?”

  “So it is.”

  The farmer shooed his boys away, four or five of them, Bistel couldn’t count them as they jostled and tumbled around one another, and then held the door himself. “Come in, then, sit, have a drink of something to take th’ bite out of the wind and tell me what it is.”

  Bistel kept his news until they had done just that, Farmer Straightplow uncorking a bottle of the finest apple brandy Bistel had ever come across, the Dweller lectured as he poured three stiff drinks and seated himself. He fought with straightening his coat sleeves a bit before looking into Bistel’s face and saluting him with the brandy. “This,” he declared, “should put a spark in your kindling.”

  Bistel sipped at the rich amber liquid, feeling its smoky glow with its heavy accents of apple and fermentation slide down his throat. He told himself that it was a good thing Magdan had not lived to come with him to do the deed he intended. He would have balked at the inevitable even as Verdayne sat silent, not drinking, but cradling his cup. He waited a moment while the brandy warmed him through his bones before agreeing. “A fine brandy.”

  “Made by Tolby Farbranch of Calcort. Used to be of Stonesend before the raiders burned him out but the man knows his apples, be they juice, cider, or brandy.” Pepper Straightplow took another long sip before setting his cup aside on the small pedestal table near his elbow. He settled back in his chair, folded his hands over his slight paunch, and waited.

  Bistel looked upon him, remembering the generations of Straightplows before Pepper he’d dealt with. Pepper looked like them, the Straightplow features passed down man to son without seemingly any interference or contribution from female looks in the line. He wasn’t sure if it was remarkable or not. He rarely treated with those of Kerith himself, leaving it to retainers, but the Straightplow family had been an exception. Until now, an exception founded in good judgment.

  “Master Straightplow, there isn’t a moment in my life that I have regretted bypassing the petitions and granting your family and associates these lands. You’ve done well by them and for them, and been generous with your tithe to me. These times, I fear, have passed.”

  Pepper sat up straight. “M’lord, if there’s been an offense, I wasn’t aware of it. Tell me what I can do.”

  “Nothing. There’s no easy way for me to say this, and there is nothing you did or can do. The aryns on the boundaries are dying. Black thread infects them, and all I can do is burn them to the ground and salt the land they stood in.”

  “Harsh,” said Pepper quietly. “Are you certain? Surely we can cut and burn where needed, but not all the groves.”

  “Neither you nor I can take the chance. Black thread thrives on the aryns, but it will spread, and we can’t let it. The waste is encroaching on your lands, Master Straightplow. I’ve come to reclaim the deeds you hold.”

  Straightplow sucked in his breath as the color left his face. Verdayne took a big gulp of his brandy.

  “Lord,” the Dweller said, but Bistel interrupted him gently. “All of you and yours and the others living here must leave, immediately. Take whatever you need to pack, but you must be gone as soon as possible.”

  A gray sheen lay over the farmer’s face. “What could we have done?”

  “Nothing. You have done nothing but that which is right and good.”

  “Then why are you doing this to us? This is my home. Has been our home for centuries, as you well know, m’lord Vantane. I can’t just pull up like that, not like a peddler with a wagon. Where would we go? It’s almost winter. What would you have us do?”

  “I’ve no choice, Master. Trust me. Black thread is virulent. It won’t only infect the trees, but the soil itself, and the water, and the people who live near it. It’s like a plague, Straightplow, and I’m asking you to flee from it. I would have you go here.” Bistel pulled an oilcloth bundle from inside his leather vest. He laid it on the table between them, took a knife to the lacings and let it fall open. “Deeded land. Yours. As good as the land here, for groves and orchards, pastures and fields. South and west of here, some days’ ride, a little warmer, wetter climate but flat surrounded by hills much as your lands here. They are and will be yours. No Vaelinar or anyone of Kerith can take them from you except by act of war.”

  Straightplow’s glance flickered down and then up. His brows etched heavy lines across his face. His thick hands clenched and unclenched. “I already have lands.”

  “I can’t let you stay.”

  Verdayne coughed as another strong draught of brandy seemed to catch in his throat. Both men waited till he settled.

  Straightplow put his hand on the deeds. He said sadly, “But this is my home.”

  “I have known the time when it was not. I saw the beginnings of your family settle here, by my leave. Now I must take it back and tell you to move on.” Bistel looked at him, keeping his tone mild. It would not be easy. He had known that.

  “You’ve said it was no fault of mine.”

  “Straightplow, try to think of this as a rescue and not a punishment.” He stood, towering over the sturdy Dweller. His knife still out, he tapped the point on the deeds as he spoke. “These papers will not compensate for your buildings and the history you’ve invested here. Besides the deeds, you will find letters of credit. You’ll need them to rebuild. But this land is virgin, and a good farmer such as yourself and your family will find much benefit in working it. It’s your choice whether to go there. It is not, however, your choice on whether to leave. You have a handful of days, regardless of the weather. I will be back in force to ensure that you’ve moved on, if necessary. Harsh, I understand, but I know how to deal with black thread.”

  Straightplow cocked his head slightly, looking up at him. Thoughts rumbled through his eyes as loud as wagon wheels but he did not express them out loud. Finally, he said, grudgingly, “I was always told you were a good man, for a Vaelinar. We’ll be gone in the five days, if not sooner. We’ll take your deeds, Lord Vantane.” He paused. “We may be short-lived, but we will remember these lands and what happens to them.”

  The corner of Bistel’s mouth crooked slightly. “Then I pray you shall not be able to remember when black thread ran rampant here, and took the lands, and corrupted them beyond redemption.”

  Verdayne got to his feet, a little unsteadily, and Straightplow looked long and hard into his face. The Dweller said quietly, “Give my regards to Master Magdan.”

  “The good Magdan passed from us several days ago.”

  The farmer’s attention snapped back to Bistel. “My sorrow to you, then. Would he have sent us away?”

  “He would have done,” Bistel answered evenly, “what I told him to have done. But, he might have advised me to take a milder course. When there are families such as yours, Pepper Straightplow, I prefer to be safe rather than sorry.”

  “T-there are aryns,” Verdayne stammered, “and in the spring, I’ll bring more saplings and . . . and seed.”

  “Then you will know where t’ find us, young gardener,” Straightplow said quietly. He folded the papers up and tucked them inside his vest. He took their hands in his and shook them.

  Bistel and Verdayne left the farmer’s great house. They rode out without a look back, knowing that the family gathered on the porch to stare after them. He could give them words and papers, but not an explanation. He could not explain that for which they had no understanding.

  The aryn trees which had stood as long as he had planted them, a barrier and border against the Mageborn chaos to the south and east, had begun to wither and die. A black fungus had begun to splotch their brilliant leaves and crack open their greening branches, rendering them vulnerable to more disease and devouring insects. Magdan had left him a legacy of notes and samples, and his moonlit night to harvest saplings had been to replace the stricken trees that he could. But the old gardener had not understood that
this was not a battle he could win. Perhaps it was a mercy he’d died without realizing that. The chaos would not be held back much longer. What would happen to these lands, so close on that border, he could not predict but he’d seen the chaos move before and it was not pretty. No, not pretty at all, even to Vaelinar eyes which could see the threads of all the elements in the world as they were born and twisted and woven into life, broken into death, and reborn again. He rode into the grove, pointing out the destruction to Verdayne. The trees murmured to him and from the look in Verdayne’s eyes, he could see that his son was enough like him that he could hear them as well. Both of them wept quietly as they destroyed the trees of their Vaelinar legacy with fire and salt, both the affected and the clean, until smoke and ashes swirled into the sky as if night had fallen.

  Chapter Twelve

  "DWELLERS ARE A BLOODY FORCE of nature,” Jeredon muttered. He managed the ramp and got to the door before Sevryn and Grace, waving to get it opened for them. Nutmeg had flown past all of them to get dinner ordered and Rivergrace’s room freshened up. Sevryn chucked Jeredon on the shoulder as they went past him.

  “And aren’t you happy she is? She means to get you on your feet.”

  “I can get on my feet. It’s staying there I can’t manage, but the healers say it’ll happen in time. She makes too much of me. She should be where she’s happiest.”

  Rivergrace paused by Jeredon, her hand brushing the back of his quickly. “She is where she’s happiest.”

  He ducked his chin. “You need to explain it to her. She can’t be looking at me with those eyes of hers.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, Grace, I cannot look back.”

  She hesitated in confusion a moment, and Sevryn took up her arm. “I’ll explain it to both of them,” he told Jeredon, before sweeping her inside with him.

  “Good.” The door shut, leaving Jeredon outside as he’d intended.

  Rivergrace waited until they were on the stairs and past the bustling staff which manned the heart of Larandaril for Lara and Jeredon. “Whatever was that about?”

  “Stay with me tonight.”

  “You’re changing the subject, and I can’t.” But she leaned into the warmth and strength of his arm. “What is it Jeredon was trying to tell me?”

  “That Nutmeg adores him, and he can’t return her feelings.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “That scarcely matters among the Vaelinars. There is no way for her to be happy here.”

  Rivergrace frowned slightly, and he wanted to smooth away the faint line in her brow as she did. “And the two of you think she doesn’t know this?”

  “I think Jeredon hasn’t the heart to send her away and hopes someone else will do it for him.”

  “She’ll leave when he tells her he doesn’t need her anymore. I know my sister. She can be stubborn, but she’s never been a fool.”

  “That stubborn trait must run in the Farbranch family.”

  She laughed softly at him, the frown lines fading away as she did.

  “Aderro.” His mouth brushed her temple. “This isn’t about Lara or dear Nutmeg; this is about the two of us. Stay with me tonight.”

  She knew a little of what he could do with his Voice, although he’d never used it on her nor did he now. He could whisper to the trees and convince them to let him meld into their being. He could coax the recalcitrant into agreeability. He could calm panic, turn loyalty in its tracks, bring forgetfulness to the aware. All with a soft sentence or even just a word or two. He would not convince her to love him if she did not wish to. She curved her slender arm about his waist. A delicate heat spread from her touch. Her long hair brushed his shoulder as they walked. She said not another word, but when the time came at the top of the curving stairs for them to part, he to his apartments in the west wing and she to her rooms in the north, she matched his footsteps.

  Rivergrace watched him bar the door behind them.

  Someone had anticipated her visit, for in the cupola at one end of his apartment a bathtub stood, filled with water that still steamed and flower petals strewn across its surface. A drying sheet lay demurely upon a nearby footstool near a folding panel that could be drawn at the entrance to the cupola for privacy. Rivergrace let out a soft sigh of anticipation upon seeing the tub.

  He took her elbow. “Hurry now, while it’s still hot.”

  She chucked her clothes with all the glee of a child readying to jump into a welcome pond in midsummer’s heat and left them in a pile with no more thought than that, letting out a sigh as she sank her willowy form into the tub. He thanked the Gods that she was still without artifice, that her pleasures came honestly and sensually without calculation and that he could enjoy her in each moment as it came to her. He crossed his arms and put a shoulder to one of the great carven armoires nearby and watched her splash about, first lying at the bottom of the tub without so much as a toe or a nose showing, then surfacing with her dark auburn hair streaming about her bare shoulders and upon the fragrant water.

  “This,” she said, “is glorious.”

  “I agree.”

  “Come join me!”

  “In a while. You, my lady, are dirty with far more need of the tub than I have. I bathed at the racks this morning. Take all the water . . . and soap . . . you wish.”

  She tossed a handful of water and petals at him, laughing as he tried to dodge and could not in time. “You’ve grown slow for a warrior!”

  He had. The corner of his mouth quirked. “My wounds are a bit unyielding. Perhaps I could use a good soak.” He moved toward the tub, the fragrance of the herbs and flowers in the water rising toward him, along with her own aroma of innocence and sensuality with the barest hint of musk. He stripped his leathers off and kicked them to one side, then his shirt and under breeches, but she did not shrink as he leaned over. Instead, she reached out and with wiry strength pulled him into the tub with her. Water surged around them, and he coughed out a mouthful of soapy water, laughing.

  Rivergrace ran her hands over his newly stitched cuts and the many dark bruises mottling his skin as he settled into the tub next to her. Her touch both soothed and aroused him, her slim fingers tracing each cut, her mouth making noises of distress. “I shall kill Daravan for this.”

  “Harsh words. And he would be as hard to kill as I am.”

  “There was kedant on the blades that carved you.” She gently smoothed a puckered cut, bringing fresh pain to the purple-and-pink sutured flesh, then the pain and more eased away as her touch soothed him.

  “How can you tell?”

  She looked up at his face. “I know you and kedant well. Once you’ve been quickened to that venom, it will always mark you more harshly than one who hasn’t been. Remember that, or it’ll be the death of you when you least expect it.”

  “Daravan had a potion for it.”

  “He knew they’d have poisoned blades?”

  “I rather imagine he suspects the worst of any encounter.”

  "He’d better not ever encounter me when I’m this angry with him. He used you.”

  He tried to sound stern. “Rivergrace, I am the Hand of Lariel, and it’s my service to be used.”

  Her mouth curved truculently. “Not in this manner.” Her hands dropped to his skin again, finding and stroking each bruise, each wound, and as each fire of kedant burned away, an ember of desire kindled in its place. They curved so closely to each other in the overflowing tub there could be no way she didn’t know the effect she had on him. He dropped his face to nuzzle her neck.

  She moved slightly in the tub, twining her legs with his, and meeting his mouth with hers, and both of them were silent for a very long moment as he tasted her, as lush and sweet as he remembered. She drew away after that kiss and put her hand on his chest as if to stop him for a moment, and he waited.

  Her throat swelled a bit as if the words didn’t come easily to her before she spoke, her eyes of aquamarine and other river blues and grays watching him.
“I saw you in the river.”

  “And I, you.”

  “No one told me this could happen.”

  “It doesn’t happen.”

  She toyed with the small triangle of fine, burnished gold hairs on his chest. “It’s nothing we can depend upon, then. It may never happen again.”

  “There are other bonds.”

  She turned her face so that she could lean against him, cheek to cheek. “I thought perhaps it was part of being Vaelinar.”

  “Perhaps it is part of being us.” He slid his arms around her, drawing her close, molding her body to his. Where their skin touched, his body warmed. He kissed her again, thoroughly, until she moaned softly against his mouth. He ran his hands over her, feeling the slender strength of her body and then the fullness of her breasts, and she moved onto him, taking him into her before she was fully ready, and the tightness of her made him hiss in pleasure, but he held back. She was not ready yet, she only wanted that joining, not the joy of it, not the heat of it, not yet. He would stroke her and kiss her and bite her neck until she arched her back and pleaded with him to move. And then he would.

  She braided her fingers into his hair. As she did, she murmured, “I feared I would feel it if you died.”

  He had feared the same but protested against her lips as he returned that he would never, never die. She sank her teeth ungently into his lower lip to still his words. “You’ve already died for me, and I for you.”

  “And was it so bad?”

  “It was . . .” and her words faded away, and she touched him, and he sank into a sensation he had never known before, the water from the bath rippling about them, still hot though cooling, a brand upon his skin as he realized the chill of death, her dying.

  The chill lanced through him and she gasped as she felt it also, both of them cold as ice within the embrace of each other.