Catling's Bane (The Rose Shield Book 1)

by D. Wallace Peach

  She met Vianne’s eyes as she handed her a glass. Vianne nodded, and Catling slid her shield into place, protecting herself from the man’s filthy groping. She served the rest of the tea while Dalcoran studied her, Piergren leered, and old Tunvise struggled to remain awake.

  “You may read in here, unmolested.” Vianne patted the book beside her on the settee. “It’s too warm to linger in the sun.”

  Catling took her place and released her shield, hoping Vianne’s assurance would prove true. Piergren frowned, and Dalcoran scarcely disguised his curiosity regarding Catling’s occasional presence at their discussions. Certainly, he understood the unsubtle message in Vianne’s words.

  “Tell me, Catling, are you still plagued by unauthorized influence?” Dalcoran massaged his stiff fingers. Even in the ferry’s cramped quarters, he was impeccably presentable, dark hair slicked back and jacket free of a single crease.

  Her gaze flickered to Piergren before she realized he spoke of Kadan.

  “Of course she is,” Vianne replied in her stead. “And I doubt she’s the only one. We need an example made before we have a guild of rogue initiates who mistake our rules for suggestions.”

  Piergren chuckled, his long unkempt hair framing his ruddy face. “You’re overstating, Vianne. If not for her rose eye, she’s a pretty girl. All the comely ones endure an extra taste of abuse.”

  Vianne’s gaze flashed fire, and if Dalcoran’s hand hadn’t snapped up, Catling would have witnessed a brawl. “Vianne is right,” he said. “We would do our guild a disservice by executing an initiate for behavior we didn’t address in an aspirant.”

  “I would also stress,” Vianne stated, “that a respectful attitude sets a valuable example.”

  “Fine.” Piergren leaned back in his chair. “You wish to hurt someone, Vianne; I’ll hurt someone.”

  “Enough.” Dalcoran raised his empty goblet toward Catling. “I would appreciate another sip.”

  Catling refilled his goblet as well as Piergren’s before resuming her seat.

  “Your studies are progressing?” Dalcoran asked.

  “Yes, Dalcoran-Elan.” Catling looked down at the book on her lap. “The Founders’ Paradigm in Shaping Ellegean Rule.”

  “Rule of the matriarchal line,” he said. “One of many Cull Tarr objections.”

  “Inheritance through the female line makes perfect sense.” Vianne smiled, her pique fading from her cheeks. “One always knows one’s mother, while the father could be anyone. How many sons and daughters claim royal blood?”

  “Scores,” Dalcoran admitted.

  “And only one with queen’s blood,” Vianne pointed out.

  On the verge of a nap, Tunvise scratched his wreath of white hair. “It appears the last of the previous queen’s offspring conveniently expired. Reigning is bloody business.” Despite his tendency to doze and his feeble exterior, he was an impressive mercy with the power of life and death in his touch. He yawned so wide, Catling could count his back teeth.

  “What is the latest word on the king’s illness?” Vianne asked. She patted Catling’s book, an instruction to feign disinterest in the conversation. Catling’s gaze dropped, and she flipped to a random page.

  “Increasing signs of witlessness,” Piergren said and tipped back his glass.

  Dalcoran nodded. “As his mind fails, his edicts become ever more dangerous. Our influencers attempt to prevent him from giving away the realm or chopping off heads, but he’s increasingly difficult to control.”

  “So I’ve heard as well,” Tunvise said. “There’s been considerable discussion in Elan-Sia regarding the next reign, but it’s not limited to the capital. Every tier ward in Ellegeance has an eye fixed on the heiress.”

  Vianne huffed. “Lelaine is inexperienced and a woman, both irresistible opportunities for exploitation. I don’t doubt the high wards have lined up for the job of king, either for themselves or their sons.”

  “Sianna of Bes-Strea has offered two sons,” Piergren said. “She’s forbidden them to bond.”

  “They’re twice Lelaine’s age,” Vianne muttered.

  “Manus and Algar have both traveled to Elan-Sia,” Tunvise said. “To my recollection, Algar also has two sons by his late wife. Both eligible, though rumor suggests one is unsuitable and the other disinclined.” Catling turned a page, the mention of Algar worming beneath her skin.

  “And then we have the Cull Tarr Shiplord.” Dalcoran finished his greenleaf.

  “The Shiplord?” Vianne straightened.

  “They’re applying substantial pressure,” Dalcoran said. “They have ambassadors in Elan-Sia and preachers in every tier city. Trade has increased, and the Shiplord’s emissaries speak eloquently of dispensing with old animosities.”

  “They’re proposing a bond?” Vianne’s chin retracted. “Lelaine has a choice. She wouldn’t consider it, would she? Is she being influenced?”

  Piergren smirked. “By every tier ward in Ellegeance.”

  “Can we stop them?” she asked.

  Dalcoran shook his head. “Not without commanding our influencers to break their oaths to the provinces.”

  “Oaths,” Vianne snapped. “They owe an oath to Ellegeance first, then the guild, then to whomever they please. This is an Ellegean matter, not a provincial competition.”

  “The king may decide either way,” Piergren reminded her.

  Vianne’s back stiffened. “The king wouldn’t agree to such a bond, would he?”

  “He’s irrational, Vianne.” Piergren waved away her objection. “Our influencers are the ones drawing his attention from the offers of Cull Tarr treasure.”

  “I’m afraid that’s true,” Dalcoran said. “They don’t have influencers, or we’d have bent a knee to the Shiplord a year ago.”

  Vianne sighed. “Their immunity to influence makes this news all the more alarming. I never did understand how one might avoid ingesting luminescence on this planet.”

  “The Cull Tarr are a superstitious people with a manipulated faith,” Piergren said. “And that opinion is of no concern to our mad king.”

  In the following silence, Catling flipped a page and Tunvise snored. Vianne exhaled a weighty breath, ignoring the sleeping doyen. “So we have broken our oath to the king.”

  “Out of necessity.” Piergren stretched out his legs.

  “But not to Ellegeance or the guild,” Dalcoran asserted, “and those oaths takes precedence. We swore never to influence the king, but he is no longer himself. Power and politics have always demanded a subtle touch.”

  “I appreciate the distinction.” Vianne folded her hands in her lap. “Yet, we’ve always maintained balance by swaying the tier wards and dominant guilds, not the monarchy. If the slightest peep of this leaks out, we shall lose the king’s trust at a time we require it most.”

  ***

  Elan-Sia rose from the delta’s shifting colors on twelve pylons. If Ava-Grea reminded Catling of petaled flowers, the capital city soared into a lavish bouquet. Twenty tiers fanned from the towers in smooth arcs, and luminescent waterfalls cascaded from the heights in liquid rainbows. Like Ava-Grea, there were no warrens, the entire first tier fringed by a floating city, capable of rising and falling with the monstrous tides.

  Square-rigged ships anchored a short distance from the water-locked tiers, and the multi-hued sails of the Cull Tarr plied the waves beyond the breakwater where the delta streamed into the Cull Sea. The sea rumbled and hissed across the northern horizon.

  Catling climbed a short ladder to the pier. The sea’s crisp breeze, heady with the scent of salt and fish, dissipated the northern heat. “Look, Vianne-Ava!” She pointed to the sunlit water in the wake of a twin-masted ship. Waterdragons, twice the size of any she’d spied in southern rivers, rolled in the waves.

  “Those are minnows compared to some of the creatures inhabiting this sea.” Vianne grimaced. “And most of them are not friendly.”

  Once everyone had disembarked, the doyen hired porters. Catling ignor
ed all the confusion and frustration, her eyes and heart on the unfurling adventure. They rode a pylon’s lift to the eighteenth tier, and Catling found herself in guest quarters more lavish than Vianne’s elegant home. She unpacked her small trunk, bathed, and stood by the window marveling at the delta while Vianne combed the tangles from her hair.

  Seen from above, the wet expanse was a web of channels and marsh grasses, sand and soggy peat, pools and tree islands. Only where the Slipsilver carved through and around Elan-Sia was it deep enough for anything but flat-bottomed fishing boats. Between the delta and sea, the whole place shimmered.

  “Tonight we’ll dine alone,” Vianne said. “I’ve had enough of my colleagues to last a season.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  “We consult with the king. You will block everyone’s influence but mine.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The nineteenth tier housed royal galleries and gardens, ballrooms, banquet halls, and intimate salons for private negotiations. An ornamental wall with open arches shielded the outer rim, protecting the promenades, delicate blooms, and carved fountains from the harsher sea winds. The topmost tier with its royal quarters offered welcome shade from the summer sun.

  Catling wore a formal brocade jacket over a paler underdress, ankle-high boots, and a wide belt, her brown locks in a coiled braid. She tagged Vianne down a hallway like a midday shadow, the doyen in her customary white and pearl. At the corridor’s end, two guards thrust open tall burlwood doors.

  The king slumped on a massive chair at the head of an inlaid table. The opulent surroundings dwarfed the old man, burying him in the richness of his fur cape and ceremonial weapons. Heartier men hovered, and threads of influence thickened the air.

  Behind him, the simplicity of the Founder-made walls was lost beneath the regalia of royalty: azure shields and banners, tapestries and formal portraits, velvet furniture and billowing silk sheers. Catling’s heels tapped across the gleaming marble tiles patterning the floor.

  When Vianne touched her shoulder, Catling joined the gathering of pages, aides, and scribes who viewed the proceedings from the windowed wall. As instructed, she severed the threads of influence emanating from the men and women who stood sentinel across the room. The king seemed not to notice.

  As their names were announced, the four doyen advanced and bowed. For a fleeting moment, Vianne halted, chin drawn in, her back rigid. Then she was all fluid grace again, greeting the king’s three councilors, several high wards, guild leaders, and the tall commander from Guardian, all those ringing the polished table.

  “I am Councilor Oaron-Elan.” A rotund man standing beside the king bowed, revealing a pink bald spot amidst his halo of brown curls.

  “What do you want?” the king demanded.

  The councilor blinked, unsure who the monarch addressed until the man’s sinewy neck craned toward Dalcoran. “Ah, yes.” Oaron swept a hand toward the new guests. “They are the doyen from the Influencers’ Guild. Here to advise.”

  The king brightened and grinned at Vianne. “Longtime advisors on whom I rely completely.”

  “We are here to serve,” Vianne said with a gracious smile.

  “Yes, Your Radiance,” Oaron agreed. “We are all here at your service. Shall we proceed with—?”

  “Hurry it up.” The king flapped a hand. “Let’s get this gibberish over with. I’m going to sea.”

  “Ah, of course.” The councilor sighed. “Commander Jagur of Guardian brings news from the Far Wolds.”

  Jagur stood and bowed. He reminded Catling of a whiskered version of Scuff, though slightly younger and without a paunch. Before he spoke, he heaved in a breath, reluctance scrawled across his forehead. “You are aware, Your Radiance, of the unrest beyond our border. Our settlements face increased violence in the Far Wolds, and I’m concerned that our policies may be partially at fault.”

  “And what policies are those?” a gaunt man at the table enquired.

  “Ill-advised policies, Councilor Edark-Rho.” The commander faced the skeletal man. “In all three settlements, Ellegeans have extended their territory, built new walls, severed migration routes, cut forests, and dammed rivers. The Farlanders have no rights within the settlements, and formal protests have made no difference. Our relations are in shambles.”

  Edark steepled his fingers. “I don’t recall those actions being prohibited by any agreement.”

  “Exactly. It doesn’t exist in any agreement one way or another. Ellegeance presumes this entitles us to unrestricted expansion. Forty percent of the land inhabited by the Farlander clans is under Ellegeance control. It’s irrational to expect they would approve of claims on additional territory when they believe the land is free to all.”

  “May I?” A swarthy man rose from his place at the table. “Barrick-Kar, High Ward of Kar-Aminia.” Catling perked up at the name. Minessa had inherited her father’s high cheekbones and sunny complexion, her Farlander features stemming from her mother’s side.

  “Please, if you would,” Oaron said from beside the king. The old monarch chewed on a thumbnail.

  “As you know, Kar-Aminia is far enough south to have dealings with clan traders. You might also recall that my dear wife’s mother was a Farlander. We endure few if any challenges while benefiting from the increased commerce. I can’t say the same of all southern provinces or Far Wolds settlements. Algar-Mur seems to believe our neighbors are invaders. The Farlanders are… accommodating to a degree, but will surrender peaceful negotiations if they believe cooperation is no longer viable.”

  The commander nodded. “If Ellegeance insists on retaining its claims in the Far Wolds and depriving the clans of land, I foresee unnecessary wars and suffering on both sides.”

  “Your job is to see that doesn’t happen,” Edark said, lacing his spidery fingers.

  “Guardian is sworn to protect Ellegeance.” The commander hooked a thumb on his belt. “The land beyond the settlements is outside our purview.”

  “I won’t have three-fingered, green-spotted giants threatening Ellegeans,” the king ordered. “Do something about them.”

  Commander Jagur furrowed his brow. “A plan for the future would—”

  “As you wish, Your Radiance.” Oaron bowed, casting the commander a cautionary glance and waving a finger at the scribes.

  The king grimaced at the portly councilor as if the man had pinched him. He leaned toward Vianne. “What do you think, doyen.”

  Vianne smiled, ignoring Jagur’s ornery stare. “You are known for your careful deliberation and wisdom, Your Radiance. I never doubted that you would allow the commander adequate time to prepare a proposal before taking any action.”

  Oaron’s finger stopped waving, and he pursed his lips.

  “I quite agree, my dear. The Cull Tarr are preaching in the warrens.” The king scratched his forehead and then stared at his fingernails. A drop of blood smeared his face from an opened scab. “Where were we?”

  “You seem to have opened a wound,” Tunvise said gently. “Might I heal it?”

  The king wiped his hand across his forehead and blinked with alarm at the sight of blood. The influencers along the wall shifted uncomfortably. Catling watched for a cue from Vianne, and when the woman nodded, she withdrew her shield from the old doyen.

  The king chortled. “Heal away, good fellow. Seems I’ve… Where are my ambassadors?”

  “The Cull Tarr?” Oaron asked, his pudgy face blanching.

  “Who else?” the king demanded. “Where’s Varon Kest?”

  Tunvise shuffled around the table and touched the white-headed monarch’s arm. The king shuddered as if awakening from a disorienting dream, his illness quelled under the doyen’s touch. Catling’s heart broke for the aged ruler. Did he ever have thoughts or feelings of his own? Was he any more than a confused child?

  When the assembled advisors finished with the Farlanders, the debate rolled on to Cull Tarr motives, and Catling’s interest strayed through the hall. Maintaining her shie
ld required little effort, and the discussion scarcely made sense. She would have preferred to idle at the window and gaze out over the waves than listen to the drone of politics and speculative intrigue.

  Around her, the attendants and aides shuffled with boredom while the scribes hissed for silence and scratched furiously with their black inks. Someone jostled her from behind, and when she turned, in the corner of her eye, she spotted Whitt standing in the back nearer the door. Less than a bell ago, she’d sauntered by him too distracted by the room’s trappings to notice. He wore Guardian greens, and when he caught her staring, he smiled.

  The flutter in her chest stole her breath away. She hadn’t laid eyes on him in three years. He stood taller, and though still slim, his bearing spoke of changes she couldn’t imagine. A smile burst to her face with a desire to skip across the room into his embrace. He raised a finger to his lips for silence and a subtle palm instructing her to wait. She nodded, time incapable of passing quickly enough to quell her impatience.

  “Your plans for Lelaine, Your Radiance?” Dalcoran’s voice drew Catling’s attention. She pressed a hand to her heart and grinned at Whitt before shifting her focus to the discussion.

  “Plans for Lelaine?” Dalcoran repeated.

  “Lelaine?” the old king asked.

  “Your daughter,” Oaron reminded him.

  “I know who Lelaine is,” the man snapped. “What’s she done now?”

  Dalcoran shared a glance with Piergren. “The provinces expect a bond and several suitors appear to vie for her hand.”

  A frown drew down Edark’s skeletal features. “Dreams of grandeur and Ellegeance rule. His Radiance is considering a Cull Tarr offer.”

  The king stiffened, blue eyes stabbing the councilor. “Never!”

  Edark reacted as if the old man had slapped him. “For… forgive the presumption. I thought… I thought—”

  “You should do more of that,” the king growled.

  Councilor Oaron stepped in to smooth the ruffles. “The high wards have suggested several young men for the king’s consideration.”