by Jenna Rhodes
“Thank the lucky stars for that,” Nutmeg exulted. She hurried past the guardsmen showing her the way through the crowded storage cellar up to the kitchen stairs. Rivergrace made to follow, but Tranta stopped her with one hand lightly on her shoulder. Nutmeg kept up a bright chatter, all the more she thought, so that she and Tranta could speak quietly without being overheard.
“I need to ask you something, though Her Highness was explicit I keep silent. But this I must do.” The sunlight from a high window did not illuminate his face kindly, but rather sharpened the shadow and sadness upon it. He looked as if he had aged decades since the last time she’d seen him and, although she knew it could be like that for Vaelinar, he was too young to have it happen to him.
“I’ll answer if I can. What is it?”
“What do you know of Kever?”
“Once, I would have said he is the more handsome of the Istlanthir brothers, but this doesn’t seem like the time to joke.”
“No.” He shook his head slowly. “He is gone, missing from his post at the Jewel of Tomarq. Sevryn tells me his sources say that he is dead, but there is no body to know for sure.”
“Oh, Tranta.” She could understand now the sorrow that rippled through him. Rivergrace tripped, and it was only Tranta’s hold that kept her steady. Her voice, though, she could not keep from quavering in her shock. “Gone? Did he fall from the cliff? If there’s no body, Sevryn could be wrong, couldn’t he? There’s a chance, isn’t there?”
“I trust Sevryn with my life. Do you?”
Without hesitation, she answered, “Yes.”
Tranta wavered. He closed his eyes and then swallowed, a hard, tight noise. He opened his eyes to look down upon her. “Then I must trust him with my brother’s death.”
She said nothing more after searching his face and seeing the resolution there. He had given up hope for Kever, based on his trust in Sevryn and Sevryn’s word. So much given up for something so . . . frail. Yet she understood, because if her love had told her much the same thing, she would believe in him. Still, to give up another’s life . . .
Tranta removed his hand from her shoulder. “I can’t say any more to you until the trial convenes, and even then, there may not be anything I can say. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
She shook her head slowly as they trailed after Nutmeg and the guardsmen. “I don’t understand any of this.”
“You will soon enough.” He rubbed his eyes, eyes the color of many seas and storms, wearily. “I have to warn you, the evidence is compelling.”
“But of what? What have I done?”
“High treason,” he said, then shut his mouth firmly. The muscles in his jaws moved, and she knew he would not say another word, as he had told her would happen.
Tiforan knelt behind the Bolger’s crouching form, intent on the outbuildings in the heart of Larandaril. He had to admit that Rufus had brought them far closer, and more easily, than he would have deemed possible. It helped that much of the guard power of the estate was gone, mustered for the war, but it did not help that the troopers remaining behind seemed to be Queen Lariel’s elite. He could only wonder why the queen had not yet left for battle and why she tarried, but it served his purpose to know that the prize Diort had sent him for remained at hand. He knew the troops had already skirmished. More than that, his warlord had not revealed to him. Diort would not send word of victory based on an initial testing of their forces; he was far too canny a soldier for that. As for the queen, Tiforan could only suppose that she had boats ready to ferry her up the Ashenbrook, the only weak spot he could see in the battlefield as described to him by his commander and the scouting maps. Such a maneuver might get her there within a handful of days. He would send word, as soon as he completed his mission and got clear of Larandaril, to warn Diort of the coming of the elite force. If they still moved after the chaos Tiforan planned to cause.
“What do you think?”
Rufus made a noise deep in his throat. “They gather,” he rasped.
“I know they gather, they’re readying to move out.” Tiforan’s impatience colored his words heavily.
Rufus turned his head slowly to look back at him over his shoulder. The Bolger jabbed a thumb at the second floor of the building. “They gather.”
Tiforan narrowed his gaze and then saw the numbers of Vaelinars, barely visible through narrow, high windows, coming into what must be a room large enough to encompass much of that second floor’s wing. “Why,” he muttered, not expecting an answer and not getting one except for a shrug from Rufus.
“We go.” Rufus got to his feet and began to shamble closer to the main manor, Lyat at his heels. Tiforan waited only a moment to weigh the dangers of such a movement before getting to his feet and following after. Rufus had shown an innate instinct for Larandaril as well as what Tiforan thought to be a knowledge of the valley kingdom. It could not be luck which made Diort assign the obstinate Bolger to his mission.
Nor did he think it was luck when the Bolger shouldered open a small, stubborn door near the laundry works, and led them inside. Webs hung down from the narrow corridor’s ceiling, and the air smelled heavily of smoke and soap. It seemed to be a fire door, advisable for the many lit cauldrons of the laundry, and no one had used it for many a year, if ever, yet it opened when Rufus put his heavy-shouldered weight to it, and Tiforan found himself on the verge of acquiring the prize his king and warlord desired. The nearness of victory on a mission both he and Diort had deemed near impossible lay so close he could taste it. He moved into the bowels of the manor, close on the Bolger’s heels.
Nutmeg was still dusting crumbs from a hasty sandwich off her cheeks and her clothing as the guards ushered the two of them into a vast room which Rivergrace had never been in before, although she knew it was a ballroom for gatherings the Warrior Queen had never held in the few seasons Grace had been by her side. Vaelinars lined it now, but not in the costumes of celebration. They wore their field gear, their leathers and silks and armor, and she could see the scars upon the leathers and the pounded-out and repaired dents on the breastplates and the helms they carried tucked under their arms, and the harnesses upon their torsos held weapons stowed. The armor glinted as a gray sunlight slanted through the narrow, arched panes of the windows, but they were not ceremonial and they showed the brunt of warfare.
Tranta rubbed his eyes, eyes the color of many seas and storms, wearily. Solemn expressions rode faces as those assembled turned to watch Rivergrace enter. Tranta left them, as he had warned her he would, and went to Lariel’s side.
Grace could not decipher Lara’s gaze as their eyes met across the room. This was not the friend who had defended her upon the mountain ridges as they rode to the font of the Andredia River, nor the woman who had worked a magic of her own and cut off a finger to do so, and not even the Warrior Queen whose life they had saved at the Midsummer Council. This was a ruler and one whose friendship could not be claimed by Rivergrace. An arm’s length away stood Sevryn and Bistane. She could not mistake the look on Sevryn’s face.
His lips moved slightly and she heard, clear across the wide room, his Voice sent to her and her alone by the talent he had honed: “Whatever happens, do not lie. I will be here for you, aderro.”
Lara shot him a sharp look as if she could hear him, and his only response was to step backward, Bistane putting his chin up alertly.
The guards left them standing at the room’s center. The wooden floor, richly waxed, creaked slightly as Nutmeg moved closer to her. She could feel heated indignation rolling off Nutmeg.
“As queen of the lands of the valley known as Larandaril, I hereby convene this trial and court-martial of the woman known as Rivergrace, held and placed under charges of high treason. The Dweller known as Nutmeg Farbranch is of no consequence in these proceedings and should be removed.” Lara began to lift a hand.
Nutmeg boiled over. “I won’t be leaving my sister.”
“You have no right to stay.”
&nbs
p; “I’m of no consequence! No consequence! Who are you, Lariel Anderieon to tell me I don’t matter? No right? These lands were ours long before you came here, and they’ll be ours again long after you leave. So if there’s any authority in this room at all, it’s mine!” She took a gulping breath before rushing on.
“If you think to try Rivergrace without me, then you’ll need to go to the courts of the Gods themselves,” declared Nutmeg, pulling herself to stand as tall as she could among those who towered over her. She flung her hand to gesture at them, light bursting from her fingertips and showering down on the assembly in a curtain of sparks that danced and bounced upon the marble floor as they hit and fell into dimness. Her mouth gaped open a moment in surprise, then clapped shut.
Tranta bent close to Sevryn, his blue hair sweeping along his shoulder, veiling his mouth as he commented dryly, “Pardon the theatrics, but I deemed her words deserved them.”
And Nutmeg crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at any who might take another step closer to her. Lara paused, her gaze sweeping over the assembly as if weighing their reaction, and then her mouth quirked slightly.
“Are you prepared to face whatever decision may be found and punishment dealt out?”
“She’s my sister. That means share and share alike.”
“So be it, then.” She nodded toward the only person in the room sitting, papers and writing instrument at hand at a small desk behind her. “And so note it.” She glanced at Tranta. “May it also be noted that the use of magic and Talents in this room is, for the duration of the trial, prohibited? This will be for the benefit of all.”
Rivergrace felt a small lessening of tension drain from her neck and shoulders as she heard Lara’s proclamation and Nutmeg made a small sound of satisfaction.
“In addition, there will be no admissible statements allowed from any who are not full-blooded Vaelinar.”
Sevryn’s head jerked about. “What?”
“It is the rule of this court.”
“Don’t do this, Lariel. Don’t cut me out.”
She did not look at Sevryn though his eyes must have bored hotly into her. “These are not my rules, these are the rules of those who came before us, and knew what they did.”
“This is not justice, then.”
“Sometimes truth has little to do with justice. If you cannot hold your silence, you’ll be removed. Bistane?”
A very long pause before Bistane answered reluctantly, “As you wish, Your Highness.”
Lara waited a moment or two before saying, “The two main accusers are not present, but I have their sworn statements before me. The charges are high treason against the Vaelinars and the first accusation comes from Azel d’Stanthe of Ferstanthe. Following a visitation from Rivergrace to the library, he let it be known that the Books of All Truth have been corrupted with an unknown and deadly mold that has begun to destroy the works at an unprecedented rate. He and his apprentices are fighting the corruption with all at their disposal and have, as of this morning, finally attained some small degree of success. The damage done, however, to the Books diseased is incalculable.”
“Although Lord Bistel was also a visitor to the library at this time, he left before Rivergrace. Azel has made a determination, according to the extent and speed of the corrupting agent, that Bistel could not have spread the mold. Upon seizing Rivergrace at the borders, guards removed from her wrist a bracelet which contains a key to the cabinets of the Books of All Truth, and the accusation falls upon her shoulders.” Lara looked to the scribe to see if her words had been taken down. After a moment, the scribe nodded to her.
“The second accusation comes from Lord Daravan. He has reported to me that the Galdarkan warlord Abayan Diort was approached by an ambassador offering to negotiate terms of peace with an alliance by marriage. This negotiation was done in secret, the offer sent by Lady Rivergrace with herself as the bride price. Other terms of the contract remain unknown. The ambassador posed as Daravan himself, which was how he discovered the proposition. We can only surmise that this alliance would have included the overthrow of all that we know as Vaelinar.” Lara paused as a ripple of sound ran around the room, but Rivergrace’s gaze fixed on Sevryn and stayed there, as if she could read from his eyes what his thoughts might be. Chills ran down Grace’s back as she heard the charges, things she had no idea had happened nor how they could have happened, yet she was supposed to have been the perpetrator of the deeds. How dare she hope to defend herself against that of which she was totally ignorant?
Nutmeg swayed against her briefly, their riding skirts brushing against each other.
Lara tilted her head slightly, her eyes dark and unreadable. “How do you plead, Rivergrace of the Farbranches?”
She took a deep breath. Feeling as if the River Goddess had grabbed her yet again to drag her down into chilly and unbreathable depths, she answered, “Guilty to the charge of having a key. It was given to me, and I used it, and if that is a crime, then I’m guilty of it. I had a need to search for information and the friend that passed me the key knew so and did it out of our friendship. I wouldn’t harm the books if I could, but no, I did nothing to them, nor had Lord Bistel.”
Bistane commented dryly, “Lord Bistel is not on trial here.”
Her hand fluttered at her side for an instant. “No. I . . . I understand that.” She tried to recapture her thoughts. “The second charge. I have but one man I wish to spend my life with, and that is Sevryn Dardanon. There is nothing I can add to that.” Her mouth had grown dry and she had to lick her lips to say what she was going to say next.
Lara interrupted. “What proof do you offer?”
“Proof? None except all that I have said and done in my life. All of which you knew before those charges were brought to you, and you decided you believed them.” Rivergrace’s hand moved again, helplessly. “You move in centuries. I live in moments, moments given to me by my Dweller family and their teaching. They taught me that life is to be lived now, and suffered and triumphed now. I’ve been accused of not being wholly Vaelinar, and there is truth in that. I won’t wait decade upon decade to live. As to the rest, I am not guilty with one exception. I went to the library in search of who I might really be. Part of the answer was given to me, and this may well be the treason you so dearly wish to hang upon me.” She faltered a moment.
“I am the daughter of the man once known as Fyrvae, smith to Quendius, and who now exists as his hound, Narskap. He is a broken being, but I believe what he told me at Ferstanthe. He may be the one who poisoned the books, but I’ve no proof, and I won’t accuse him of it. If I am guilty of my bloodline, then so be it.” Her words fell into a deadly quiet.
A Drebukan, a son or nephew of the murdered Osten, cried out. “Murderer!” Steel filled his hand, and he lunged. Both Bistane and Sevryn reacted, and the open floor of the ballroom filled with surging bodies. Nutmeg took her arm and swirled her away from the fray, dragging her toward the open doors, but crossed swords blocked them. Lariel held one of them. Their eyes met across the gleaming steel.
“You will never go to Abayan Diort. Never. Not as long as I stand.”
“This is madness,” Sevryn yelled to her. He held the Drebukan at bay, swords crossed with daggers between them. “This is no trial but a vendetta, Lara. We have other enemies, close at hand, we should be striking at!”
“And she would bind them together, Narskap to Diort.” Lara’s hand knuckled whitely on her sword’s hilt. The guard standing with her kept his hand steady, the sinews on his forearm standing out with the strain. His blade crossed hers, but it not only blocked the door—it blocked the blow she might have struck—and held her constrained. The two swords murmured together, steel singing briefly. “I will not be questioned.”
“You must be,” Bistane said, not unkindly. “Or else you would be the very tyrant you would oppose. Even your grandfather bent himself to be questioned.”
“I know what I know, and what I have seen.”
Loud wor
ds began to buffet them, and Rivergrace shrank back a little against Nutmeg, her ears ringing with the anger and strife of the many voices talking at once.
“Proof,” grated out Tranta as the voices began to die down. “What proof? Upon my dead brother’s soul, you’ve not shown us enough to convict Rivergrace.”
“Proof?” Lara pulled her sword back and sheathed it, her movements slow and deliberate. Her mouth twisted to one side. “If I said I was Anderieon, would you doubt me?”
“Of course not. You are the heir of the Anderieons as certain as the sun rises in the sky.”
“And if I tell you that I know who my enemies are, and why, would you doubt me?”
No one in the ballroom seemed to wish to answer her, although several shifted their weight uneasily, and the wood of the flooring creaked with their movement as if giving voice to their hesitation.
“In the interest of justice, we would all have to doubt you until evidence proved you right. How dare you forget that?” Bistane answered her with sorrow.
She ran her hand through her hair, brushing it back from her face. “I don’t forget it. I weigh what I know with what I am given to see, every day. I put aside alliances, friendship, even love, to make that accounting.” She looked over Rivergrace quickly, before turning away.
“Prophecy,” said Sevryn quietly. Yet his voice carried over all the murmurs, all the conferrings, and Lara faced him.
“It is not reliable.” One of the Drebukar spoke up, his face a whole and thin image of his kinsman Osten, his brow knotted in disapproval.
“It is reliable. When it occurs. When it can be deciphered. It’s not a way to rule a people from day to day. Still, I know what I have seen.” The cords in Lara’s throat stood out as if her very throat tightened about her words, trying to stifle them, yet still she spoke.
