The Four Forges

by Jenna Rhodes

  Narskap looked into the night, thinning into a morning fog. He disliked the east. He did not care for the long travel to journey there, or the feelings evoked by the warlands crossed to get there, or the Galdarkans who populated it. Quendius seemed to love or hate nothing and showed little feeling as Narskap rose from the waning campfire and looked into a very early dawn.

  “We move east,” he said, “to Diort. But,” and he pointed westward. “Someone advances on our heels.”

  “Scouts say nothing.”

  “There are scouts who haven’t returned. Likely, will not. Get your troops up and on their feet, for the western enemy does not sleep.”

  “The sword thirsts.” Quendius rose, his sooty skin nearly invisible in the night.

  “Ever. And it knows where to drink.” Narskap went to the horse lines to draw his steed out and began to saddle it. As he mounted, Quendius swung aboard his own, using the tying ropes for a bridle. His sharp whistles of command pierced the air, sounding like the hunting cry of a falcon on the soon-to-be morning air. Without voice, he quieted his troops with a wave of his arm, signaling them to ready for an assault.

  The ambushing enemy charged from the hill as they readied. Narskap spotted a banner of the ild Fallyn and one of House Hith-aryn, but the banner little mattered there, for Bistel himself led the chargers, his head bare, steel-blue hair cropped nearly to the skull and the light blue streaks of his eyes blazing within darker blue depths. Narskap unsheathed the sword, felt it quicken in his hand, heard it keen in his ears, and he began to mow down any within reach.

  A stroke to the right, and a Vaelinar fell, head all but severed from his neck, blood spurting. The sword leaped a second time to the font and stayed a moment, quivering, drinking, and when Narskap rode on, little blood stained the grass beneath the still twitching form.

  Sevryn slashed to his right, the knives clashing as the Kobrir parried, and the ring of watchers grew heavier about them. He drew his left hand knife quickly, feinting to the left, looking for a gap in the assassin’s defense. He found none, as he knew he would not. The only surprise was that the Kobrir evaded pursuit and faced him now. He wondered where the Town Guard was. And Jeredon. He had no time to shout for either. Kobrir struck with the quickness of a deadly snake.

  Troops snaked about Narskap, drawing back as he swung the sword, its wailing cutting the air even as its steel did. They fell back, not in a maddened panic like the Bolgers, but they knew—oh, yes—they knew that the sword took not only life from them. He carved a pathway for himself, intent upon the banner Hith-aryn and the elder Bistel, eldest of all the Vaelinars on Kerith, rumored to have been born in fighting gear.

  He would take Bistel down. Eating the soul of Bistel would make the sword invincible, and both the blade and its carrier knew it. Narskap kneed his horse hard, lunging uphill through bodies and archers and cavalry, his eyes intent on his goal. Dawn would bring death, and worse.

  Steel gashed the air near his ear, so near he felt it pass before he heard the whistle. Sevryn ducked out of instinct, but too late; the knife had already gone by him. He felt a drop of warmness trickle down his neck. He thought he’d been missed but perhaps not. His ear might ache later. If he still had an ear.

  He crouched low and swung to his left, catching the Kobrir off guard and off balance, and jabbed knee-high. He felt his weapon sink into flesh and sinew, heard the surprised grunt of pain as he did. The knife twisted from his hold as the Kobrir pulled away, and Sevryn found himself with but one blade. He tossed it from his left to his right hand even as he spun out of the other’s reach. He could hear the crowd’s reaction, the buffeting as they drew tighter around them, with shouts of encouragement and warning. They had no idea what they observed other than two knifemen in deadly combat.

  Horses crashed before him. They thrashed with maddened whinnies and his own mount shied away. Narskap cursed and turned his horse about in a tight circle, then drove him back uphill to the Vaelinar war chief who cleaved his way downhill. They would meet, inevitably. He heard Quendius’ sharp whistles and looked, saw the troops straggling yet mustering behind the weaponmaster. The tide had been turned and now the ild Fallyn and the Hith-aryn began to back away, to gain the room to swing about in retreat.

  Quendius gave the whistle which meant to gather hostages of the higher ranked. Ransom would not be gathered, but they would spill the guts of all they knew before another evening fell. Narskap’s shoulder cramped and his arm wearied, but he held his greatsword aloft, and swung it once, urging his horse after Bistel Vantane.

  Their eyes locked. Across a handful of horses falling and surging, their riders clashing, their gazes focused on one another.

  Then, Bistel pivoted his war mount around and rode into the night, out of reach.

  Narskap and his sword howled for the loss of their quarry.

  The Kobrir did not miss a second time. Sevryn felt the knife go all the way to the hilt in his thigh. Pain flashed back to the roots of his teeth. He clenched them against a cry as he stumbled down, and rolled to avoid a third strike. But the Kobrir did not stay. With a dead run at the crowd, he vaulted over their heads and disappeared, a dark shard among night shadows. Sevryn ground his jaw together and wrapped his hand about the knife hilt, knowing better than to pull it, in case the blade were all that kept him from bleeding out. He was on his back cursing when Jeredon got to him.

  Jeredon helped him onto his good leg, eyeing the knife. “Should have missed everything vital, but we’ll get a healer in before we pull it. Kobrir?”

  “Yes, and gone, but I took his knee out, I think. He’ll be hurting. Lariel?”

  “Safe. Bistane has her.”

  The Dweller guard Hosmer shoved his way through to get to them, and put his shoulder under Sevryn’s arm for a crutch. The two of them set him on the Great Hall steps. Hos put a finger to Sevryn’s ear. “Nicked you, m’lord.”

  “Still got the point?”

  “Aye.”

  “Not that close, then.”

  He’d almost had the Kobrir, but not close enough at all.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  TIIVA CURTSIED LOW to the floor, her dress in a burst of creamy satin about her, her skin glowing warmly in the candlelight of the isolated alcove. Jewels gleamed at her wrists and dangled from her earlobes. Torchlight guttered low, and draperies and bunting muted their speech to near whispers. “You were difficult to find this time, m’lady queen.”

  “I would think,” Bistane said dryly, “you could locate her by the screams.” Cloth in hand, he attempted in vain to blot away stains and vomit from his leather vest and fine shirt. Bloody cloths lay strewn about the alcove, and Sevryn leaned his shoulder to the wall as was his wont, but this time it seemed a pose to mask pain.

  “One would.” Tiiva agreed. Her glance flicked to Sevryn, and the tie of cloth about his thigh. “The healer found you?”

  “He did. An annoying flesh wound to the meat of the thigh, a clean cut. I’m nearly sound again.”

  “Good. The unfortunate news is that it’s the height of the gala.”

  Lariel wrinkled her nose slightly. “Likely they think it’s just part of the entertainment. Thank you, Tiiva. On your way out, please corner Mayor Stonehand, accept his apologies, and convey mine for the upset?”

  “Of course. And I will impede his progress in this direction.”

  “Most perceptive of you. You’re invaluable.” Lariel watched her leave, and then reached down into the plunge of her gown and armored corset to remove a small vial secreted there. The blown-glass vial shimmered as the water of the Andredia roiled within, and she took it up to cup in her hands, as though communing with it. “This,” she murmured, “is my charge and my strength.” She held it briefly before Rivergrace stirred to place her hand over both the vial and Lara, her face paling.

  “This water,” she said with pain, “is also bad.”

  Lariel shrank back and Jeredon’s attention snapped about. “What did you say?”

  “T
he water. Inside the vial. It’s not the same as the other, but . . . it has been fouled.”

  “That water,” he said sharply, “is from the sacred Andredia and was freshly drawn before we came to the Conference.”

  Rivergrace bowed her shoulders as she looked wordlessly to the tiled floor. Sevryn moved over protectively with a limp and a firm step. Lariel rubbed her fingers over her brow. “Leave her be, Jeredon.”

  “First the poison and now this. She was right on that one, but she can’t possibly know what she’s saying about the Andredia. She has no idea of the blasphemy of our trust and pledge she suggests.”

  “She knows,” Lariel told him sadly. “I don’t know how she does, but she does. The corruption plaguing Larandaril has washed into the river. Or it comes from the river, and washes into the land. It’s been decades. I had hoped,” and Lariel turned her face away from all of them, “I had hoped I was wrong. We moved all those settlements to forestall this, and yet it goes on, and worsens. I’ve searched all that I know and found nothing. It’s the reason I came to the Conference, in hopes of insight.”

  The expression on Jeredon’s face closed. “You were going to tell me when? That it might spring from the Andredia itself?”

  “When I had to.” Lariel stood. “This is my trust and burden, and I would not have told you or anyone till I had no other choice. But as for you,” and she took Rivergrace’s chin in her hand, forcing her to look up. “How do you know what you know?”

  Far away, a gong sounded the candlemark of late evening, four marks short of dawn. Rivergrace hardly had any idea of how the night had slipped by her, except that she had been with Sevryn for all of it, and now she felt trapped, his eyes and the eyes of everyone else upon her. She didn’t know how she’d felt what she felt, nor said what she’d said, but that hardly mattered now. What was done was done, as Tolby would say.

  “I can’t say.”

  Bistane gestured impatiently. “Let me handle this, m’lady. Silence rewards none of us.”

  “I can’t answer what I don’t know.” Forced, she looked into Lariel’s eyes, purest of cobalt with sparks of gold and blades of silver glittering in annoyance. She had no idea why alarm had lanced through her, sharp as a blade and compelling. Only that it had.

  “But you know more than you’re saying.”

  Nutmeg protested, “She saved you!”

  “Indeed she did. The question is how.”

  Bistane pressed closer. “She has our blood and eyes, although there is clearly something else about her. I sense no power, even with the eyes.”

  “She’s my sister,” Nutmeg said firmly.

  “I came to them on the river,” Grace added faintly. She put her hand up to shield her face from Lariel’s piercing gaze, and her sleeve slid down her arm, lace tumbling away to display her skin. Sevryn grabbed her wrist as Nutmeg let out a smothered cry of dismay, and held her bared arm out, saying, “Scars. Made by shackles, unless I miss my guess.”

  “And you know shackles well.” Lariel released Rivergrace’s chin. “Those are more than rub marks. Those came from a branding.” Her eyes glimmered in sympathy.

  “A slave. What did she promise for her freedom?” Bistane paced once, turned about angrily and put his hand on Lariel’s shoulder.

  “These are faded.” Sevryn did not release Rivergrace, his fingers strong and hot on her chilled skin.

  She would not look at him or anyone but Nutmeg. She sat very still, as the silver-winged alna do, when watching the river for sign of fish below the water, hunting and wishing not to be noticed, but she had been noticed and she was the hunted. Her heart beat in her throat. Did they know where she’d come from? Would they send her back to slavery? What, if anything, could she trust from these people who looked like her, but to whom she did not belong except perhaps in chains.

  “Plans to assassinate a queen may marinate for decades.”

  “Do you think so?” Sevryn stared into Bistane’s face. “Sounds as if you’ve experience there.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Nothing more than what you’ve already suggested.” Sevryn turned Rivergrace’s arm in his hold, and slid his hand down to take hers. “You sang of Ashenbrook. It was, as I recall learning, an ambush that took place there.”

  Bistane made a growling noise, and fell into silence, his body between Sevryn’s and Lariel’s.

  “I found her,” Nutmeg claimed stoutly.

  “Meg, don’t.”

  Nutmeg flounced to her feet. “She came down the river on a pile of broken sticks, and I pulled her out, and we kept her safe, and she grew up with me. That’s all there is to know. You can ask my da or mom or my brothers. She’s never done a Vaelinar thing in her life, but look like one of you, and she’s got a good Dweller soul in her. You’re not taking her.”

  “We have no plans for her,” said Lariel quietly.

  “Yet,” muttered Bistane.

  “Still, I would like to know how my goblet showed no sign of poison, and without scent or taste, you knew it, and you knew of my vial.”

  “I can’t tell you. I felt it. The glass was so beautiful, sparkling like a precious jewel, and in its heart, something muddy and bloodied and sullen.”

  “You saw it?”

  “I saw it.”

  Bistane’s hand cut the air. “Impossible. The poison was as clear as the drink. You couldn’t have seen this venom.”

  “I know, Bistane.” Lariel turned her head and kissed the back of his hand that rested on her shoulder. “Don’t make me send you away just yet. Be quiet for me?”

  His jaw clenched angrily, but he held back a retort.

  “What about the kingdom vial? From my River Andredia?”

  “I saw it.”

  “Again? Was it the same?”

  “No. I can’t tell you . . . it’s like looking at pain, hurting, bottled up.” Rivergrace made a helpless gesture, unable to put it into words.

  “You saw it? You felt it?”

  “Both.”

  “The poisons differ.”

  “How can you see a poison that no one else can?”

  “She does,” said Sevryn flatly. “Leave her be.”

  A shadow stirred from the draperies at the corner, Daravan materializing from nothingness. Sevryn spat out, “God’s blood, Daravan. How long have you been there?”

  “Since the Kobrir fled and you gathered in here. I considered going after him, but the crowd was too thick. He could have taken hostages, and that would have proved disastrous. I have a suggestion.” The tall Vaelinar folded his arms over his chest. He wore dark silvery-gray-and-blue, jacket over billowing shirt, and lean swordsman’s pants tucked into his boots, and both girls recognized their mother’s handiwork.

  “He speaks while I cannot?”

  “The difference, Bistane, is that I can rarely get advice from our elder,” Lariel said in faint amusement. “We’re all listening, Lord Daravan.”

  “She doesn’t know what she knows. You need another talespinner to talk of her finding. Go rattle her door and bring the parents here.”

  Lariel turned to Bistane. “Find the commander of the watch and tell him to bring the Farbranches to us. Her brother Hosmer may still be on duty, as well. Go gently, but swiftly.”

  Bistane Vantane bowed sharply and left. His bootheels rang out a staccato of irritation as he stalked away.

  Sevryn said to all, but his gaze leveled on Daravan. “I will say this only to those assembled here, and no further. That assassin was not the Kobrir.”

  “What?”

  “We speak of poison.” Sevryn tapped his leg. “My wound is clean. The healer had little damage to deal with. The Kobrir leaves nothing to chance, his blades are notoriously marked with venom. Always. Whoever that was, he was an imposter. A good one, and a damned good fighter, but not a legendary assassin. Whoever hired him either thought they hired the Kobrir or wanted us to think they hired the Kobrir. Either way, I would not let them know we suspect otherwise.”
>
  “Well, then. I was just beginning to think this lad was intolerably busy.” Daravan smiled thinly as Jeredon crossed his arms over his chest.

  Daravan said, “One other thing.” He approached Lariel and spoke, his voice pitched to her alone, and her eyes widened as he did. She questioned, “How can this be true?”

  “I only know that it is.”

  Jeredon had quieted when Daravan started talking and now moved into the light toward his sister. “What?”

  “Can this be repeated?”

  Daravan gave her a sharp nod.

  “There was another battle to the east. Word is unclear, but it looks as if Diort had forces moving to join him and they were cut off. Bistel led and ild Fallyn accompanied him. He must have grown wings after he left here, like the war falcon he is. We have no word on which side they rode, nor what other forces are involved. Confirmation is awaited.” She put her shoulders back. “It is time,” she added, “for me to prepare for war.”

  Daravan’s eyebrow flew up.

  “You would not have told me if you’d known,” she acknowledged of his surprise. “I’ve had other signs and suggestions, and I’ve stayed my hand, but no longer. It takes time to ready. I may have already waited far too long.”

  “You’re not even certain of the enemy.”

  “I think,” she answered slowly, “that they hope for just that confusion.” Then, to Nutmeg and Rivergrace, she added, “I will not hear word of this beyond this room, or you’ll find yourselves in more trouble than Nutmeg can talk you out of.”

  Lariel sat down, drawing a small table to her side. “Show me what you know,” she told Daravan, “while I still have your presence and you still have my ear.” They began talking softly and swiftly as the lamps burned lower and lower.

  Tolby Farbranch, awakened from a deep and sound sleep, sprang from his bed with fists knotted and swinging. He cleared the room of Town Guards while still in his nightshirt and drew his arm back to take out the lad coming in the bedroom door when he recognized Hosmer.