by Jenna Rhodes
Nutmeg said quietly, “I need you. And Sevryn does, even if he won’t tell you so. You give him the spine he needs to fight for you!”
Rivergrace shook her head slowly. It wasn’t spine Sevryn needed. He was not afraid to fight for her. He was afraid that once he began to fight, he would not be able to stop himself until Cerat’s bloodlust had been slaked, and who knew what bloodletting and souldrinking that would take? She knew that now. He was afraid of himself. She knew what that felt like. She took a breath chilled with indecision and then a sight met her eyes. “The choice has been made for me, it seems.”
“What?”
“They’re coming for us.” Grace pointed downslope, where a body of horsemen rode toward them, and angling alongside, a single horseman charged, his chestnut mount moving like a flame licking up the hillside.
“Sevryn, that one’ll be,” Nutmeg observed. “Not on Aymaran, but I can tell by the way he sits a horse.”
“Yes.” Her heart did a funny little beat in her chest, and she put her hand up, over the cloak, as if she could hold it steady by placing her palm over it. Would he be furious that she had left without telling him? And when she told him that she carried the blood of the enemy, what would he think? Was it possible he had known, deep inside himself, since those days when Cerat had swallowed his soul into the great sword? Buried inside the metal, had he known who had forged it and caged the Souldrinker into it, and how only one of his blood could even think to master and wield the blade? Had he known it and kept that from her, or perhaps sensed it deep within the threads of his soul so that when he was rewoven into life again, if she told him, it would be like plucking a cord and he would remember it? Would he hate her for it? Or had he, possibly, shielded her from the truth he’d learned?
And how would that affect the Demon he wrestled? Did Fyrvae tame Demons or only give them license to come into this world and wreak their havoc? Did she have it in her to help, or would she undermine what little control Sevryn had?
She could not even guess. She watched the riders stream out of the valley pasture, surging uphill toward them.
“Nutmeg—”
“No, by the blood of the trees and the stones of the stars, I will not be ridin’ off and leaving you.”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“Wasn’t intending to let you,” Nutmeg said sternly. “We’re family. If that’s trouble, we’re both in it. Only thing is, how can books cause this much fuss?”
“It all depends upon what’s written in them.” Rivergrace straightened her back and watched the horsemen draw clear.
Nutmeg muttered lowly, “This one must’ve been on how t’ avoid taxes. They look awfully keen to greet us.” She shoved her booted feet firmly into her stirrups.
Fresh air flowed over Tiforan’s face. He inhaled deeply despite the cold biting into his lungs when he did. He did not like dark, closed-in places, but he had taken the pathways as he had been told to do, and now he was here beyond the borders of Larandaril. The leathery Bolger riding next to him flexed his shoulders, and jumped off his mount, checking the ground around them. “Tracks,” he said. “Heat still in them.”
How the beastman could feel anything through those heavily callused and scarred hands, Tiforan had no idea, but he nodded. He flicked his fingers at Lyat, his junior. “I want a note made. The borders of Larandaril are warded, that much is true. But the wards cannot tell one intrusion from another. We’ve crossed on the heels of another, and so we are through. An interesting flaw to remember.”
Hastily, Lyat pulled instruments from his pack and made notes in his odd scribe notehand, to be more fully detailed later. Tiforan sat as the Bolger coursed about on foot, rather like a hound, taking in those who’d ridden before them. He went to one knee for a long time, then, silent except for a slight grunt every once in a while as if debating with himself, although what deep thoughts such a being could hold Tiforan could not imagine.
Other than the icy wind, winter seemed to have little grip on this lush valley as a dwindling sun gleamed over it fitfully as useless clouds veiled it now and again. Trees still held coppery and yellow leaves, though thinning, and the evergreens were almost blue in their vivid greenery. Grass blades still peppered the landscape everywhere, untouched by nighttime frost. A paradise, he thought, held by those who deserved nothing of it. Soon, it would be stripped from them, and he would aid in the doing of it. That gave him great satisfaction. Finally, the Bolger put his hand flat to the ground, and said, “Horses. Coming fast and hard. After othersss, I think.”
“Are we in sight?”
The Bolger shook his head.
“We stay here then, in cover. No need to let them know we are here. Yet.” Tiforan patted his horse’s neck in satisfaction. The mount quieted under his touch. He could hear then, the dull thunder of horse hooves and the cracking of leaves and twigs snapping under them. They were close. Very close.
Sevryn reached them first, lying low over his horse’s neck and lashing the reins as he raced uphill. The tashya responded, pulling out ahead of the others by many lengths, nostrils flared as he snorted to a plunging halt next to them. “Grace! Get out of here!”
She thought her heart failed her. “Don’t do this—”
“Ride. As hard as you can.” The lines of his face tightened as she searched it for any sign of hope. Anything.
Had he given her up to his queen? Fear rose in her chest. “What did you tell them?”
“Ride. Now.”
That was not an answer she could accept. She put her hand out. He grasped hers tightly and she felt a thrill run through her, an energy from himself to her, filled with love and desperation. It drove the one fear out of her, replacing it with another. He turned to Meg.
“Nutmeg, take her and run. Don’t turn back, for anything. Find a haven. Send for Tolby.”
She found her breath again. Something wrong yes, but not between them. Not now, not yet. “What’s wrong?”
“Hold!” Lariel’s voice cut through his answer like a sharpened sword. Guards on horseback, led by Lara and Bistane, wheeled around them in flashes of mane and tail and flying hooves. “Take them. I want them both under arrest until the one known as Rivergrace can be tried as a traitor.”
Tension leaped through their handclasp. Grace saw Sevryn flex his free wrist as a red spark lit his eyes. She threw her appeal to Bistane whose horse jostled flank to flank with Sevryn’s chestnut mount. “Don’t let him fight!” she pled. “Don’t let him do this.”
Bistane swiftly drew his dagger, reversed it, and struck before Sevryn could land a blow of his own. Only his dagger hilt hit Sevryn hard just behind the ear, and he fell from his horse, his hand torn from her hold.
Rivergrace ripped her gaze from his limp form and found the queen’s eyes fixed upon her.
“Traitor,” repeated Lariel.
Chapter Forty-One
RUFUS LET OUT A LOW GROWL. Much as Tiforan hated touching him, even with riding gloves, he did so. The shoulder he grabbed bunched tightly. “Leave them. We’re close but not close enough.” He watched the horsemen wheel about. Someone dismounted long enough to sling the fallen body over his mount. He knew only two by sight: Bistane Vantane whose hawklike profile was a copy of his warlord father’s, and the Warrior Queen Lariel who looked better than the miniature painting he’d been shown. He let go of the Bolger in distaste. “Bring us down behind them. I don’t want to be seen. We’ll make shelter for the night.”
Rufus grunted then, in acknowledgment. He got to his feet with a heavy shrug.
Tiforan had no doubt his mission would be successful because he willed it so. Still, there were intrigues inside the idyllic borders of Larandaril. He would have to remember all that he saw and surmised when he reported to Diort. Lariel’s reign seemed far more troubled than they had known.
“It would be a grave mistake,” Lara said softly, “to have me question your loyalties now.”
“Then do not do it.” Sevryn stood, a trifle wobb
ly on his feet, but he stood. A small trickle of blood down the side of his neck had dried. Bistane flanked him in case he needed to be held up . . . or restrained.
“I’d be a fool if I didn’t understand a little about love.” She opened her hand, exposing two folded letters in it. “Drebukar and one of our traders have both sent word about the Shield of Tomarq. The Jewel is destroyed, and Kever missing. There are signs of a struggle.” That same hand cut the air as Sevryn opened his mouth to interrupt. “I choose to believe your informant about the loss of Kever. Not only because you’ve always obtained good intelligence for us, but also because of Tranta’s reaction. The Istlanthir have always had a very close bond. It’s part of their family’s trait, as inbred in them as hair the color of the sea.” Her fingers rubbed the letters. “But don’t mistake my understanding for anything other than it is. I am debating having you put in the same cellar to await court-martial. There is no doubt you have shown true colors the years you have served me, but . . .” She raised her eyes. “And I want you to listen carefully. Because of our long lives, we have long memories. Memories of friendship and betrayal, of hatred as well as love. I know that plans for vengeance can be decades in the making and even centuries in being carried out. It is not beyond reason to think you could be a pawn.”
Sevryn got out a sound before Lara’s gesture stifled him once again, but she said to Bistane, “Gag him if necessary. He will hear me out.”
Bistane gave a short bow.
She put her shoulders back. “If anyone put you into motion, it was Gilgarran. I trusted his advice when he would give it to me, but there was much he left unsaid. Whether he trusted in me, I’ll never know, or whether he thought to let me go my own way and make my own mistakes. He whispered in my ear, when they made me Warrior Queen, that he would mark my steps. I can’t think of any harm he’d want to bring to the Anderieons, but he was vain in his wisdom. He often thought no one knew better than he did, and he could be impetuous in his decisions. It’s possible that someone directed him even though Gilgarran had no idea of it. And through him, you.” Lara leveled her gaze on Sevryn who made no move other than to allow the side of his mouth to twitch. “If he guessed he was being used, he let no one know of his suspicions, not even you.”
To that, she seemed to expect a response, for she waited silently, with one eyebrow raised. He let the silence linger a little longer before answering, “No, Highness, he did not. Although Quendius . . . Quendius is a man Gilgarran let live. We could have had him once or twice, and he let the opportunity slip. I always thought that, although Quendius is undoubtedly an enemy we need to bring down, Gilgarran thought someone stood behind him. Someone that he would let Quendius lead him to, eventually. He might have been wrong.”
“Error or deliberate decision, it cost him his life. I suggest you defer from following that example. You will not see Rivergrace tonight, I forbid that, but I’ve no doubt you will come to her defense tomorrow. She is set for court-martial.”
Sevryn swayed a little in spite of his rigid stance. Bistane put a hand on his elbow. “On what charges?”
“Two, of high treason. You’ll know more tomorrow. Don’t give me reason to jail you with her tonight, Sevryn, for at the moment you seem to be her only defense.”
“Osten is dead and Bistel is gone. How can you think to put anyone on trial?”
“Bistane stands in his father’s stead, and although I would rather be mourning both Osten and Kever, betrayal gives me no choice but to hold a trial.” She jerked her head at Bistane. “See that he makes it to his quarters. ” She turned her back on them both.
Hand still on Sevryn’s elbow, Bistane led him gently away.
The tiny nub of candle left to them had burned out and the old cellar, empty of everything but dust and old barrels and themselves, had gone nearly pitch-black. They had each upended a seat before the taper had pooled into nothing but a small bit of melted wax, and Rivergrace sat with her back to an empty wine rack. Something scuttled past their boot toes in the dark.
“I wonder if they’re trying to put a scare into us and they’ll be coming to get us later.”
“I wonder where Sevryn is,” shot back Nutmeg. “I thought he’d tear the place down to get you.”
She might have thought so, too, but now she worried only that Bistane had hit him too hard. She would not have thought anything could keep him from freeing them. She did not have an answer for Meg.
That thing, little beastie or whatever it was, scampered past their feet again. Grace thought of lifting her legs and curling up on the barrel top, but Nutmeg merely growled at it. Her voice sounded precociously fierce in their cell.
“What do you think the queen meant by traitor?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Oh.”
Rivergrace tucked her hair behind her ear, felt its pointed curve, so different from her sister’s. “It may be something I know or something I am.”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t want to . . . I don’t want you to look at me as if I were a monster.”
“Grace, if you had two left feet and your head on backward, you’d still be the sister I pulled out of the river! My sister, brought to me! The sister I always wanted, and the one I’ll always love, no matter what.” This time, her voice sounded indisputably fierce and firm.
“I think I’d better tell you, then.” And, in a darkness so dense and heavy that she could not see anything at all, let alone Nutmeg’s face, Rivergrace told her haltingly of what she had learned. The story felt as if it took forever to spin out. Then, she waited for Nutmeg’s reaction. The silence seemed endless.
“Well,” said Nutmeg slowly. “Is that all?”
“It would be enough, don’t you think?”
“I think you don’t remember our orchards very well. If you graft a tree, it bears the fruit of th’ graft. It doesn’t suddenly sprout weeds or hairs from a boar’s chin, or even the fruit of the stump which first nurtured the graft. And you, Rivergrace, as I keep telling you and whose thick head is even more proof, are grafted onto the Farbranch family! If the queen had half a wit left after worrying about this war of hers, she’d see that, too.” Nutmeg made a huffy sound. Then, much more quietly, she said in a worried note, “I don’t think they’ve remembered to bring us dinner, have they?”
Chapter Forty-Two
MORNING CREPT IN SLUGGISHLY. An icy mist hung drearily over the plains that promised no rain and yet no sun either. Bistel walked through his troops, rousing various commanders and leaving instructions with those who had water Talent to keep the mist cloaking them as long as they could. As he strode by the various campfires which had been banked to little more than glowing coals, he could hear the start of drums. Jeredon rose as he paused, getting to his feet and starting after Bistel with an awkward, scissor-legged gait. He finally gave up and let Tressandre levitate him across the uneven ground as he followed in the other man’s wake. He looked alert, but Tressandre’s smoke-green eyes stayed heavy with sleep, her dark honey-colored hair tumbled about her shoulders as though she had not had time to comb or tie it back before hurrying after Jeredon.
Bistel let Jeredon draw even with him. “Why the drums?”
“Because,” Bistel answered him, “it is a reminder that he is primitive, compared to us, and we are alien compared to him. Also, in this fog, it’s his best way of getting his troops into position. He is warning us that he will attack today.”
“That’ll be a relief, then, after days of staring down his gullet.”
“What do you expect from him?” Bistel fixed his gaze on Jeredon, his shock-white hair mirroring the heavy fog about them.
“I rather think this will be a test sortee. He’s not fought us. He’ll want to draw us out as much as he can, see what our strengths and weaknesses are.”
Bistel nodded his agreement to Jeredon. “I think so, as well. Still, dead is dead, for those who fight poorly today.”
“I’ll have to tell our troops to fight poorly
as little as possible.” In his shadow, Tressandre’s mouth curved in an ironic smile in response to Jeredon’s remark.
“You do that. Rouse everyone, but do so quietly. Diort may choose thunder to announce his presence, but I rather like the stealth of the mist.”
“Yes, sir,” Jeredon responded. Putting his hand on Tressandre’s ready forearm, he turned in his glide and made his way to the commanders who still slept in the cold and forbidding morning. Only a few had been awakened by their passage, but more began to stir to the drumming, shaking awake their companions and getting quickly to their feet. He and Tressandre wove among them, speaking softly and steadily, putting them on alert without alarm. They were seasoned although none had been involved in a conflict like this. They reached for their gear, which had been repaired, honed, and oiled, all in readiness as mounts on the horse lines lifted their heads and whickered inquiringly, pricked ears flicking back and forth. Collared dogs shook themselves awake, spikes rattling. Vantanes in their jesses lifted their leather-hooded heads high alertly, knowing the time when they would be loosed to the skies must be near.
“Your troops,” began Jeredon, but Tressandre cut him off with a shake of her unbound hair.
“Alton will tend to them. My place is at your side.”
“I won’t drain your strength for my vanity, Tress. I’ll be using my cart when Bistel orders us off.”
“Till then, is it not easier on you to do this?” And she gestured, indicating his glide by her side.
“Magic makes many things possible, but not all are easy or wise.”
Tressandre laughed. “Jeredon, you sound like a stodgy old librarian! You must have had Azel for a teacher.”
He rarely heard Tressandre laugh, but he reflected that he preferred the sound of Nutmeg laughing, fresh, happy, and open without artifice or without the meanness of someone laughing at him rather than with him, even when he knew well she laughed at him. He gave a rueful smile, instead of letting the emotion he felt, that of missing Nutmeg, show on his face. After weaving their way through the camps, they returned to the hillock that Bistel had designated as his post. It held higher ground, for observation, though it was highly unlikely the warlord would spend much time there. He preferred to be among the fighters himself, where he could gauge the tempo of the battle and the strength of the weapons as well as the men using them, and test the strategy of those he faced. Other commanders joined Jeredon and Tressandre as he got his cart. Alton brushed his sister’s cheekbone with a light kiss of greeting and her eyes flashed in surly discontent as he did. The others came far more quietly, some with banners in their hands, from times beyond which any of them remembered, for the beginning of the Vaelinars lay before they had been lost. The names and symbols on those replicated banners had but one meaning: home and honor.
