The Dark Ferryman

by Jenna Rhodes

  “Scouting reports detail the same amount of force.”

  “Smaller than expected, but no doubt their elite and strongest. They think to subdue us in one fell blow.”

  “So it seems to me as well.” Abayan clicked his tongue against his teeth in thought before adding, “I am entrusting you with a delicate matter but one of import to me.” He detailed his plan to Tiforan who punctuated with sharp nods to show he understood at various points before standing still. He answered when Diort finally fell silent, “Thank you for giving me this.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Fail at any step along the way and it could cost lives. Wander upon the pathways, and you will never be found. I give you passage for this and only this.”

  “I will go only the way you’ve given me, and say only the password you’ve revealed to me. I won’t fail you, Diort.”

  Diort waved a hand at him as he looked back over his maps. Outside, a horse whinnied in the late night. He stopped, listened, heard nothing more, and returned to his scrutiny.

  “We are nearly in place,” Tiforan remarked.

  “Yes. Scouts report that Lord Bistel arrived just before sunset to take charge. His presence lends more confirmation that these are their elite forces, their best and bravest. It won’t be long now. Are you ready for war?”

  “Ready and eager.”

  Diort gave a dry chuckle. He tapped the map with one fingernail. “There is a trap here. Between the Ashenbrook and the Revela Rivers. Queen Lariel perhaps thinks I don’t know of it, and hopes to capitalize on that. She’s forgotten I have Rakka. Or has she? The Vaelinars have fought this battle before. I’m as capable of learning from their history as they are. Or does she count on that? And, if so, what is the real trap?”

  “Answers of that sort don’t come until we’re on the battlefield.”

  “Yes. And that is why I send you out. If you succeed, I will have an advantage they can’t possibly foresee.”

  Tiforan touched his forefingers to his brow in respect. “Thank you for the honor. When do I leave?”

  “Tomorrow at noon. Any sooner, since armies crawl, and my hand will be tipped.” Abayan saluted him in return before turning his attention back to his map. Was the Warrior Queen brilliant or young, untried, and naïve? And would either lead to the death of his plans?

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  THE KNOCK, SOFT AS IT WAS, still awakened her. Lariel rolled out of bed and onto her feet in one movement and in the next was in full stride, grabbing her dagger as she crossed her rooms. She opened it with caution, using the door itself as a partial shield, thinking to see her guard lean quietly in to speak with her, but Daravan stood framed by soft moonlight and tapers burning down to fragrant pools of wax in the hallway. He took her hand, dagger and all, and drew himself inward as he closed his fingers about hers. His other hand went to her lips, fingers upon her mouth to silence her.

  “Do not scold your guard. I sent him off for a pitcher of mulled wine.”

  He needed it, from the icy coldness in his hands. Lara toed the door nearly shut as she felt her mouth curve into a smile under his touch. He dropped his hand as she did, his thumb brushing along her jaw.

  “Your devotion to your duty is remarkable.”

  “You,” he breathed softly, “are not my duty.” He bent his head and kissed the side of her neck.

  “You presume much.”

  He chuckled, a warm gust of breath against her skin. “I presume nothing but fond memories of the past. We were like this once, you and I, and I’m asking for nothing more than reminiscence. Send me away if you wish.”

  She held still in his arms a moment, deciding, and when she couldn’t find a protest, he drew her closer. She managed a coherent thought finally. “Then you have no urgent news which brings you so late to my side?”

  “I always have news.” He kept his mouth to her neck, nibbling, inhaling her scent, his words a tickling whisper upon her skin.

  “What if I do not wish to entertain your . . . news?”

  Daravan laughed softly. “No news at all until you entertain this.” With that, he drew her close, sinking his teeth into a bite and molding her body to his, leaving little doubt as to his intentions. He released his bite and kissed away the sting, working now across the shoulder he bared while he brought his hand up along her ribs to firmly circle her breast.

  She felt heat surge from the center of her being and turned her face to meet his mouth, pressing upward to him, tasting him in answer, until they broke off when neither seemed able to breathe.

  A muted voice at the door said, “Wine, as ordered, m’lord, m’lady,” and a booted foot slid a tray inward before the door fully closed and shut them away.

  “Will you have me tonight?” Daravan asked of her, before bending to her mouth again, taking her answer in other ways than words until she put her hand up in protest between them.

  “Of the few I trust, you’re the only one I desire,” Lara told him. He buried his free hand in her hair, and his other hand stayed upon her breast, thumb circling her nipple through her thin gown until she thought she would cry out with the aching sensation he brought to her.

  “Excellent.” He cupped the back of her head to bring her to his kisses again, hot and hungry and devouring until her senses swam and all curiosity about his news fled, and she was only Lara with no thought of the Warrior Queen.

  A very long time later, she awoke to his breathing in the bed beside her, blankets fragrant with the musk of their lovemaking, her body spooned against Daravan’s, her nipples still tender and rosy, and she wondered what had brought him to Larandaril. She let out a lingering sigh to have such thoughts pushing insistently back into her mind. She had not been a lover to Daravan for a very long time, and even then it had been brief when she was still a young and uncertain Warrior Queen. This evening had been sweeter than she remembered, but she could not forget herself forever. She put her hand on his shoulder. Like the wary man he was, it awakened him immediately. He stirred in the covers.

  “Again?” he asked softly, a laugh in his voice.

  “Again? What ego you have!”

  He turned on his back to pull her against his shoulder. “And what appetite you have.”

  She dodged his kiss but could not avoid the hand that reached for her still so tender breast. Her breath hissed inward involuntarily as he evoked sensations through her. Finally she put her hand over his to stay him. “Not now, not yet.”

  “No?”

  “No.” Lara let out a shaky exhale. “We have business.”

  He clucked his tongue but relaxed under her hand, his still upon her warm flesh but no longer exciting her. “And if I don’t obey you, you’ll set Jeredon upon me in the morning?”

  “I would, but he’s already gone to Ashenbrook with Tressandre.”

  “I thought you meant to keep him here?” He turned his head to look at her face. “Is that wise?”

  “I’m not sure, but the ild Fallyn Talent is keeping him on his feet, and that is all he wants for the moment.”

  “Tressandre will exact a price for that.”

  “I think he knows, although I’m not sure he really understands the extent of it.”

  “Better that he had stayed with the little Dweller lass taking care of him. She would not have plotted slitting throats in the dark if she grew weary.”

  Lara turned a little in the hollow of the bed to face him and rest her head more securely on his shoulder. “I think danger lies even in that path for him.”

  “Really? Interesting.” Daravan lay still a moment before murmuring, “You have no heir.”

  “No.”

  “If both of you fall, we Vaelinars may turn on each other.”

  “No. That is part of my deal with Bistel, to have him step into Osten’s place. Bistane will hold the reins until an Anderieon warrior is found. If not . . .” she pressed her cheek against his warmth. “Then he will hold both lands.”

  “The ild Fallyns won’t take kindly to it, but ther
e’s not much you can do if you’ve documents.”

  “I’ve documents.” She pushed her thumb into his rib cage. “Now tell me what it is you came to tell me.”

  “So impatient. The Anderieon blood runs strong in you. Is there none of your mother to balance it? I remember her as a sweet-tempered woman of hidden but indomitable will, rather like robes woven of the most gossamer spidersilk only to be ribbed with steel stays.”

  “Don’t speak of my mother to me.”

  “Still? You still deny her? That isn’t wise or good for you, Lara.”

  She answered fiercely, “Not a word of her.”

  He kissed her temple in gentle admonishment. “That isn’t right. Blood is blood, my young queen, even if you fight against it. She did what she thought was right, after marrying wrong twice.”

  “Eladar was a good man. My brother proves it.”

  “But not the man he needed to be, and he died before he could prove it upon her body with a second, more Anderieon child, true? As for her second husband, he found the grave before you had even quickened in her womb.”

  “Stop it,” said Lara, softly and urgently. “No more.”

  “If it can’t be said here, then where? It’s never been proved that your mother seduced your grandfather for a child. He might well have seduced her. She was always his most loving daughter. He wanted Anderieon blood and Talent in his line. Had to have it. Who is to say that it isn’t him you should hate instead of her?”

  “He raised me!” she answered fiercely. “She bled herself out instead of facing life, and it was he who raised me! If not from guilt, then why? If not from shame, why?”

  “Perhaps, my dear,” he told her, and kissed her brow again, “because he told her to, even as he told her to carry you. You can’t know. I can’t know, and she is too long dead to tell us.”

  “No one knows. Don’t speak of it again. Not to me, not to anyone.” His large hand framed her face a moment, his skin warm and smelling of her essence, his touch was both rough and tender. “You know I’ve kept my word these many years.”

  “Then why talk about it now!” She would have turned her face away, but he held her close.

  “Because I need to remind you of the confidence you have in me. The news I have is that someone has carried a pact to Abayan Diort. My spies tell me that it will be said I did so. You cannot believe that. What you can believe is that m’lady Rivergrace has offered herself in marriage to Diort, for terms to be negotiated.”

  “What? She has no House or Fortress, no standing—why would he even consider it?”

  “Because, as we’ve discussed, she does have magic within her veins, even if we’re not sure of her bloodlines and her Talents. He desires that. She or her advisers have shrewdly guessed you won’t willingly offer an alliance with him, so they put her out there. And, it seems, he is interested.”

  Lara grew very still for long moments. “Would he negotiate peace?”

  “My spies weren’t in the tent with Diort and the man who brought a deal to his table, but he has marched to Ashenbrook and will arrive there in a handful of days, so it doesn’t seem likely. She has power, my dear, power that he thinks he can use.”

  Lara’s lip curled briefly. “She can hardly use it.”

  “Perhaps.” Daravan paused. “Have you ever considered that she might carry the long missing heritage of the Mageborn in her? That she is both of us and them?”

  Her long silence before answering told him that she had considered just that. “They are all dead. They were gone centuries before we were lost upon Kerith.”

  “I think, if a God were determined to wipe out myself and my family, I would find a way to stay very, very hidden. Wouldn’t you?”

  “It’s not possible.”

  He waited for her to stir restlessly before adding, “Why else would a River Goddess of Kerith choose her as sanctuary? There are much more suitable fleshes to take as Her vessel, unless that Goddess saw and recognized something in Grace that you and I can’t.”

  “The Goddess is a minor deity, anchored to the Silverwing, as near as I can tell, although Grace seems to be able to call her up in other waters. The only deity I fear is Andredia. The river and font we guard is the anchor to her being on Kerith, and she calls herself one of the main elements in the making of this world. We have Gods of our own, but she’s not one to be ignored or crossed in any way.” Lara paused a long moment before continuing, “Rivergrace hasn’t the guile to bargain with Diort.”

  “She hid successfully among the Dwellers from all her enemies for years. Do you think an innocent can do that?” He released his hold upon her, and Lara sat.

  “I think what I know. If you had word that Tiiva had done this, hoping to supplant me, or the ild Fallyn, then it would be believable.”

  “Tressandre has tried a number of times over the years to supplant you and failed. She thinks Jeredon is her key now.”

  “She’ll fail there, too. Jeredon wants to be whole to help me, not to replace me.” Lara combed her heavy hair back from her face, its gold-and-platinum strands cascading through her fingers onto her neck and shoulders.

  “You’re certain of him.”

  “Yes.” She could feel Daravan watching and measuring her, but she did know Jeredon’s heart, didn’t she? As well as she knew her own. From her first days walking, he’d been there for her, teasing and teaching, and he had been relieved when it was soon apparent that she was the heir their grandfather hoped for, and would mentor, and would appoint. He’d have the freedom to be what he wanted. He did as all expected and vied with her for the title, but no one thought he would be chosen and he wasn’t. Never had he expressed disappointment or envy. She would know if he had, wouldn’t she?

  Just as she would have known if Rivergrace had carried an ambition inside of her. If not Grace herself, then who might manipulate her? Sevryn was Lara’s right hand. He’d put his life before her many a time, the latest when Quendius had aimed his arrows at them. Did he resent her for not endorsing Rivergrace? Yes, but he’d made that known. He had done nothing underhanded. Rivergrace was his heart. He’d never give her over to Abayan Diort. Or offer her as bait.

  Lara closed her hand tightly. She knew the few she trusted well. Did she not? As Jeredon the hunter studied the signs of his prey, she the queen studied the signs of her people. This was part of the power of her Anderieon blood, the blood her grandfather so coveted that he’d committed incest to ensure its continuation. But even her heritage couldn’t sift through Rivergrace. Who could know what rested inside a woman of unknown lineage and who had sheltered a Goddess? She couldn’t afford to be wrong or ignorant.

  She murmured a word not meant for his ears, but he, trained to the silence of forests as well as stealthy men heard it: traitor. She reached for her gown. He put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Stay in bed with me.”

  Her back stiffened, but his other hand moved there, powerful, seeking out and rubbing knots of tension and worry until she returned quietly, then willingly to his arms. He made love to her again, and she drifted away to sleep. And dreams.

  It was the dream she feared above all others. A battlefield that left her people annihilated and their future in bloody ruins. Hounds howled in distress, horses wandered, bloodied and heads down, limping lamely among litters of bodies. Moans rose from the dying and filled her ears, tore at her heart as she stood, both hands wrapped about her sword, almost too weary to lift it a final time. She’d had this vision before but never so complete, so real, so devastating. She wavered upon her feet when the unmistakable feeling of power and weaving ran over her. Someone within their ranks plucked at the threads of creation, plucked and chose elements, and began weaving a Way. The survivors rallied behind her. She could hear those whole of body picking up the wounded as the Way gathered strength and then opened in front of her.

  Trevilara. The Way home. She saw into the gap as plain as any sight she’d ever had, and knew the land of green and gold that met her eyes was
real, and waiting for her, and was her birthright. It was their escape and their destiny and she called for her people, the survivors, to follow her into it.

  An answering call challenged her, and Abayan Diort stood between her and the Way, weapon in hand, blocking her. The Way to Trevilara framed his head in golden flame and the Guardian stood unrelenting. His troops flanked her, kept her from retreat, and now he stood between her and the desire of all their hearts.

  Lara woke in a sweat. She put her palm over her mouth to still her cry of despair. Daravan stirred faintly beside her. The cords of her throat strained as she swallowed tightly, holding back her vision, her omen, and her sobs. Then she managed a breath and sat, swinging her legs out of bed.

  Daravan rolled over and murmured a quiet protest.

  “It’s almost dawn. I have things to do. You rest. I’ll have some food sent up from the kitchen.” She rose and drew curtains about her bed, shutting it out of her sight and mind while she prepared for the day.

  Azel opened the gate to the inner cabinet, enjoying the smell of paper and leather, and the satisfaction of having gotten Bistel Vantane’s memoirs in his collection at long last. It was not a rite of death although many of his brethren had made it so. He had Vaelinar, though, who came in every few decades to update their writings in case memory faded or life took them unexpectedly. He knew what Bistel thought he faced and felt the old warlord to be wrong. Few could hope to best the man in strength or strategy and, barring treachery, Azel thought the head of the Vantanes would live for many decades more.

  As a historian, he itched to read what Bistel had written but that was not allowed in the Books of All Truth. They were to stay inviolate once written and completed. He would not even read the partial compilations. He did not totally understand the destiny intended for the books, but there was one, and his understanding—or not—of it did not make it any less real. It only made a thorn in his side which would both pinch and itch because of his interest and passion for knowledge. At night, sometimes, he would muse if he himself would live long enough to see that destiny reached and he could at last quench his desire for the books.