by Jenna Rhodes
Nutmeg caught her elbow immediately as her head tilted up, up, and back, and Rivergrace shrugged her off as her sister fought to right her. “I’m just looking!” She pointed up at the eaves and nest.
“Oh.”
She nudged her sister. “I’m not going to drop again, all right?”
“I fainted once,” Nutmeg declared, still standing very close to her, as if she thought she could catch Grace.
“I remember. I wouldn’t call it fainting. You’d had all that hard cider and then the Barrel boy tried to kiss you . . .”
“Hmmmpf,” said Nutmeg. “Felt like a swoon to me.”
“No doubt it did.” She wasn’t sure what a faint felt like, for she didn’t remember much beyond hanging the laundry and then pausing by the well for a break, and then waking with Keldan hollering for Lily, and dumping half a bucket of water on her. The rest of the morning she’d as soon forget, with Lily worrying over her before leaving, and Tolby frowning and stomping around, muttering something about being useless when it came to female troubles.
She hooked Nutmeg by the elbow. “At least he wanted a kiss. As I recall, they all wanted kisses from you!”
Nutmeg’s cheeks grew even rosier as she admitted that to be truth, and they laughed at each other, walking down the row.
Snatches of conversation reached them. “... and rain coming, in a day or two, blessed be.”
“Aye, not a pelting, though, shouldna be this time of summer. It’ll be a warm rain and what wouldn’t I do for a cold shower from the north, just for a day! What do you hear about the dance . . .”
“The miller is talking about raising his prices again, curse his hide. I make little enough money as it is, and now the grain is nearly as dear as gold . . .”
“Blame the traders for their profits, and beyond them, blame the cursed elves. They have a stranglehold on everything . . .”
“Messenger! Coming through!”
The two of them turned about to see if it was Walther, but another lad ran by, taller, calf muscles bulging from the cuffs of his short pants as he raced past them.
Something caught the corner of her vision from that quick glance, but when she turned her head, nothing was there. She tripped in her tracks and caught herself by grabbing Nutmeg’s shoulder. She could have sworn she’d seen a figure watching them intently among the growing crowd. Had someone been there? Did one of Walther’s crew dodge around behind them in the shadows, practicing stealthy arts which, she was certain, did not suffer because their leader now had a legitimate job as a messenger boy? Dropping her veil into place, she looked about carefully and caught no other sign of someone, yet felt a tickling at the back of her neck as if being studied.
“You’re jumpy,” complained Nutmeg as she caught her by the shoulder a second time.
“Am I?” She patted down her skirts and fell back into a stroll before pitching her voice slightly above a whisper. “I think we’re being followed.”
Nutmeg swiveled about. “No one there.”
“I can see that.”
Her sister bounced back into stride. “Maybe it was an admirer.”
Grace found herself smiling down over that. “You think so?”
Nutmeg tossed her lustrous hair back over her shoulder with an extra bounce. “They are bound to notice us sooner or later! They will be knocking down the door to ask Da permission to dance with us.”
“I can hardly wait.”
“I know I can’t! Once the gowns are measured and made, maybe we’ll have some free time. I hear the whole rest of the summer and the harvest months are filled with dances and teas and festivals.” With another toss of her head, Nutmeg led them down the lane which began to grow crowded with workers and vendors and a few early shoppers. Dwellers and Kernans mingled cheerfully, doing business, the Dwellers with the perpetual cheer and bluster she knew so well, and the Kernans with a morose, resigned air. It was their city, a trader hub, but they barely held the majority of the numbers anymore, swelled with Dwellers moving in from farms to ply their industry wherever they could. Nutmeg moved among them with a sway of her body, like dancing without a partner, and Rivergrace did her best to follow her agile sister. She did draw looks, although Grace couldn’t tell if it was because of her audacious plowing through the crowd or her prettiness as Nutmeg led. Laughing softly in spite of herself, she followed after, much as if they were racing to the tallest tree by the orchards to see who could scale it fastest. She bumped into a body and came to an abrupt halt, staring upward.
A bare chest of soft, golden hue, cloaked in a hide of forkhorn, the fur combed and burnished met her examination. He smelled of woodsmoke and incense. The man folded his arms and glared down at her, dark amber eyes full of Galdarkan disdain. She bobbed in apology. He jabbed a thumb across the road. “Two sides. You walk over there.”
Rivergrace glanced across the street to the unpaved side with its littered gutter. Nutmeg had retraced her steps and rejoined Grace who drew herself taller and looked the man in his hard eyes. “Like you, I will walk where I wish,” she answered, and sailed past him, Nutmeg in her tow. Something wet splattered at her heels.
“Some men!” muttered Nutmeg who now hurried to keep up with Grace’s long, agitated stride. “Imagine that.”
She did. Only she imagined that it was her veil, and not her gender, that had evoked the Galdarkan’s arrogance.
Lariel stepped inside the Conference room which would be grand in any of the provinces, noting that the table had been replaced since the last time she’d attended, or at least had been given a new top, for the scars from her sword were gone. More than a scar, as she recalled, the tabletop had split where her blade struck. She stood inside the doorway a moment, gathering her thoughts as to what she would and would not say later in the day. It wasn’t that she’d come unprepared, it was that her decision to say certain things seemed subject to a tide of approval, much like a beleagured shoreline, sometimes inundated and sometimes laid out to dry under an unforgiving sun.
“Your Highness,” murmured Bistane out of the shadows, emerging quickly enough that he startled her despite his greeting, but she did not jump. His dark blue eyes held a smile for her.
Instead, she hooked her toe about a chair leg and pulled the chair out a little, so she could settle onto it, and look up at him. “Bistane,” she responded. “Are you early or am I later than I thought?”
“We are both unforgivably early.” He seated himself opposite her. “I was, in fact, hoping to find you here. I know your habit of preparedness.” The intensity of the color of his eyes softened the harsh contours of his face and short hair. A warrior through and through, the hands he folded on the tabletop showed scattered scars and calluses. “I wanted you to be aware of this before I presented it.”
“Oh?” She arched an eyebrow. Like her, he often cut through words and preliminaries, blunt but effective.
“I will propose abandoning the Accords.”
She might have expected that from others, but not Bistane. Various among them had rankled about it for decades, even centuries, but it kept them in check and balance. She did not bother to hide the faint surprise which bubbled to the surface. He’d expected it, or he would not have taken care to warn her.
“You will ask why, and I will not be able to give a full answer in chambers, but I’ll speak now.” He leaned forward, resting on his forearms. “Whatever good the Accords have done us, their usefulness is past. We need to ready for war again, and they cause too many of us to hesitate. The Accords were meant not only to keep us from killing each other as we consolidated our positions but to keep us here, on the western coast. Now we must grow or our own entropy will be our worst enemy. We are meant to stretch our influence and enrich the lives of the world around us, Lara. We need to give up the past and move forward.”
“You propose conquering?”
“Far from it. We will be conquered if we’re not ready.”
“Bistane, if there is one thing I’ve had taught to me
, and taught well, it is that one never picks up a weapon unless one intends to use it. If we arm for war, there will be war.”
“It’s coming.” Bistane took his attention from her and gazed out the window at the far end of the room. “I’m no ild Fallyn, but I can feel it. You know it’s in my blood. We Vantanes are war hawks, nothing less. I won’t start a quarrel, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let one plow me under.”
“And if you can’t say that in front of the others, what will you say?”
He turned his eyes back to her and smiled thinly. “I will say we need to reclaim our bloodlines. Take in and train the children we once tossed aside. Become as teachers to a world which doesn’t want to be a student but can hardly refuse us. Go forth, and illuminate. Open the gates that the Accords keep locked.”
“That, at least, sounds altruistic.” Impatiently, she tapped a nail on the highly varnished tabletop.
“Lara. I won’t lie to you. I may evade the truth with Tressandre, but I won’t lie to you. She’s sensed it as well. The ild Fallyn are recruiting half bloods to see if they can breed back lost Talents. As for war, the Bolgers are gathering clans again.”
“They hardly threaten us.”
“True, but they make good mercenaries for those who can. How long do you think the Kernans and the Galdarkans will stay disorganized and scattered? The only things that kept these lands from being held by the Galdarkans were their own allegiances to the Magi, each to his own small fiefdom, and they held old scores and enmities in memory of them. If they had ever united then, we would be under their yoke now. There is a vast continent out there, and we have but a handhold on the western edge of it.”
She let out a soft sigh, in spite of her intentions, and Bistane leaned back. “I have to fight you on this.”
He nodded slowly. “I thought you might.”
“Sometimes I think the Accords are all that keep us civilized. It is not just the agreement not to war on one another, except for Honor Duels, but the ban against creating new Ways. You know, and I know, that our hold on magic is not what it should be. There are monstrosities out there, Bistane, that we created, and we cannot undo. There may come a day when one of us decides to create that which will be an abomination to all life. The Accords bind us against that.”
“It keeps us bound to one another,” he agreed. “Perhaps I think we’re beyond that, and you don’t.”
“If you’re right and I’m not, there is no harm done. You know we can rise to fight if we need to. But if I’m right and you’re not, all that we have could collapse. We won’t have to worry about Kerith tearing us apart, we’ll be at each other’s throats again.”
“Do we not learn?”
She looked at his face. “I’m afraid to bet my life on it. What of our vows?”
“We strike back once, twice, and it’ll be over. If we’re ready. There’s where you and I will knock heads, my lady. If we’re not, they can overrun those of us who hesitate, who take the higher course of passive resistance. Your concerns about the lands, the Gods, will be plowed under with the carrion and bones.” He pushed his chair away and stood. “At least you know.”
“I thank you for coming to me and telling me.”
He gave a short bow before leaving her alone in the Conference room. She looked at her reflection in the highly polished tabletop. If she had not come, this subject could never have been brought up, for a vote would never have been taken without her presence. But since she did come to attend, Bistane had seized the opportunity.
War, she thought. The very premise of it would sweep away the smallish concerns she had about the Andredia, even though she knew, in the long run, the health of the river would be far more important to the world. Who would listen to her troubles if they would be spending days arguing about abandoning or reconfirming the Accords?
Damn Bistane. His words would overshadow hers to the extent she was not sure she would be heard at all.
She would have to plan anew.
Chapter Forty-One
SEVRYN STOOD WITH HIS back to the wall of her apartment, shrugging now and then uneasily, his customary stillness fled, as if he were at odds with himself. His fidgeting sent his clothes chafing against his body, kedant-laced scars burning and aching, close to intolerable. He focused his thoughts elsewhere. She did not often have to summon him, he usually appeared whenever she needed him, as if he knew. Or perhaps it was because he and Jeredon often shadowed each other, and her. Perhaps. His unrest nagged at her senses, at her Talent, and that bothered her. What should she be seeing that remained unfathomable to her? He brushed his dark, bronzed hair from his forehead, shifting weight, wincing ever so slightly, a sudden darkness in his gray eyes.
Laraiel turned her attention from him to her writing desk and the sheaf of papers upon it, finding it easier to talk to them than directly to him, and ignoring her brother who’d come in as well, and claimed the nearest chair. “Wear your emissary badge,” she directed. “Those who overlook seeing it have only themselves to blame for being unaware that you’re speaking to them on my behalf. I want you to work your way through the delegates, our people and the others, and I want you to talk, quietly, of the need for the Accords. Use your Voice, Sevryn, but do not get caught. Understand? I have a need for you to remain undetected as you’ve been, and this request is no exception to that.”
“Understood. Anyone in particular?”
“Avoid Bistane and the ild Fallyns. Bistane brought this to me, so he will be especially sensitive. Stay a good distance from his earshot.” She pondered a long moment. “I might suggest Azel d’Stanthe. He hates these things as much as I do, yet he’s here this year, so he must have a reason. Perhaps I can help him achieve what he needs.”
Jeredon flexed one ankle as he remarked, “The historian takes no side,” from the otherwise quiet depths of his chair.
“Of course. But there is always a first time, and if nothing else, I would like to know what’s on his mind. I don’t wish to have any more surprises to deal with.”
Sevryn gave a ghost of a smile. “Shall I meet with you before the first addresses?”
“Yes. I’d like a summary by then.”
He sketched a bow and left her with her brother. She stood and fussed with her day gown, her mind far from dealing with lacings and buckles.
Jeredon sat back on his chair and looked up at her, the amber highlights of his green eyes sparkling with humor, even when his thoughts were somber. “The Accords debate rises again? And here I thought Bistane came acourting and to sing for you, and try to win you with a duel or two.”
She smacked him lightly across the nose with the belt she’d been trying to fasten. He laughed even as he ducked away and caught the belt, wrenching it from her hands. “At least he warned you.” He rubbed the smarting bridge of his nose, the one feature of his face that looked so like that of their shared father.
“That he did. He will expect a courtesy in return, I’m certain, and even with his warning, there isn’t a lot I can do except figure out how to dissent gracefully.”
“You believe they’ll bring this to a vote this session?”
“Yes. I also believe it’ll go as Bistane wants it to, even over my objections.”
Jeredon whistled softly. He’d been coiling the belt in his hands as if to snap it back at her playfully, but stopped, his face gone serious. The Holdings never moved that quickly on any discussion, but he could tell she expected just that. “There’s only one thing you can do now, then, before the afternoon session opens.”
“What?”
“Go shopping.”
“Shopping?” She raised both eyebrows in surprise.
“I realize there often isn’t a feminine bone in your body, but this season means meetings, dances, fetes and you need a new gown.”
She shut her mouth. “I can’t believe you’d suggest such an empty-headed, self-indulgent, exercise in . . . in . . .”
“Useless vanity?”
“Yes. That, and, and .
. .”
“Go shopping,” he repeated firmly. “Daravan is in town and he won’t step foot within these walls, not without setting off wards or being detected. If, however, you go where he can get to you . . .”
“Oh.” She reached out and grabbed her belt back from him.
He did smile then, widely, and the amber gems in his green eyes lit up. “I’m not totally useless as a brother.” He stood. “While you’re out, I’m going to hug a few maids and kiss a few cooks and see what they’re saying.” He winked at her just before going out the door.
Lariel stood in indecision. She should tell him, before too much longer, her worries about the Andredia and the vows that Larandaril stood upon, because he was more than her brother, he was the heir after her, and if she failed in her mission, the brunt of that failure would fall upon him. She hesitated long enough that his footfalls went beyond earshot, and he was gone, and she was left alone with her thoughts.
She smiled wryly. Some of us talk with Gods and others of us seem merely to talk to ourselves.
Whatever he suggested, she needed to do something. With a quick hand, she plucked her hooded cloak and veil off a nearby hook and shrugged into them. Daravan had to know, if he didn’t already, that the Accords were in jeopardy of being put aside. Shopping it was.
