by Jenna Rhodes
Bistane slowed his mount as he caught sight of the first of the tents. They were not allowed to build frameworks or anything that might add any permanence to their chosen homes and finally had accepted that edict after he’d brought in a company of men to tear down those that had been built. Under notice that he would burn them out if they violated that restriction again, the Returnists had reluctantly complied. His tashya complained at being restrained as well, although this by bridle rather than a writ and tossed its head while working at the bit. It wanted to run, where the ground was both firm and yielding, without critters that could dig holes for unwary hooves to be caught in, with the spring tide upon them. He wanted to indulge his hot-blooded horse but held him down to a walk. Hooves struck the now muddied ground with emphasis, the horse letting it be known he did not wish to be muted.
He halted the horse beyond the boundaries and dismounted, looping the reins easily over his left forearm, leaving his right free to draw arms if need be. Bistane knew they would provoke him, they always did, these Returnists. He just was never quite sure if it was intentional or accidental.
Someone had been bold enough to hoist a flag. He narrowed his eyes at that. Several children playing outside one of the longhouses put aside their grass necklaces and mud pies, got to their feet, and fled. That was . . . new. And disturbing. It meant that someone felt guilty and had cautioned the children. Now he had to discover what had transpired to cause the guilt. He shrugged off his riding gloves and slapped them against his thigh before securing them in his belt. Behind him, he could hear the distant thud of his backup troop, just a handful of Lara’s men, in case he needed them. The worry that he might nibbled at the back of his thoughts as he approached the residences.
The worry gave way to irritation which began to grow into anger. Instead of knocking on the door barring his way, he kicked it, the door shaking as a result of his action.
It flew open.
“Everyone out,” Bistane ordered. “I want everyone where I can see them clearly.” He stepped back, resting his wrist on his cross-body sheath, and watched the longhouse empty. From the bodies emerging, he could tell he’d interrupted a town hall meeting of some sort, one that had perhaps begun with the hoisting of that flag. He said, to no one in particular, “Get everyone else here, as well.”
A slim, dark-haired boy balanced on his toes, ready to take off on a run, but was halted by a head shake from a meaty man, his body clothed in trader’s garb, his thick hand cutting through the air for emphasis. Bistane stared at him. The man stood still a handful of seconds before fidgeting and stepping back. Bistane then looked to the youth. “He does not countermand my order. Go fetch what other adult residents you can.”
The trader reset his stance as Bistane faced him. “A name,” he said.
“Trader Gantermitt.”
“What guild hall?”
The thick-bodied man put his foremost chin out. “I am from the east.”
“I am educated. What hall?”
“Norist.”
“Southeast, near the bay of Qiram.”
A look of surprise flashed over Gantermitt’s face. “Yes. That would be . . . correct.”
“You’ve come a long way to sit on your haunches.”
Gantermitt drew his stocky body straight. “I would like to see my home.”
Bistane turned on his heel a little and pointed a thumb to his right. “Qiram and your hall would be that way.”
Someone tittered in the growing group behind the trader and Gantermitt’s face knotted. “Lost Trevilara has beckoned for many of us for hundreds of years.”
“You forget to whom you speak.”
The trader put up his chin again, somewhat reducing the wattle of his abundant neckline, as well as increasing his belligerence as he stated, “I know exactly who faces me. Warlord Bistane Vantane, of the Northern Aryns, self-appointed regent of Larandaril.”
“You have forgotten that I am the son of Bistel Vantane who was the oldest living survivor of the sorcery which brought us to this world, and that we were both on the banks of the Ashenbrook when Daravan revealed that we were not lost on Kerith, but sent here to exile and death. You have forgotten that we temper our skills at war with our magics of the aryn trees and our fields, and that we came bidden to Larandaril because of our alliance with Queen Lariel, and you are here unwelcome.”
The hand of men at Bistane’s beck and call dismounted and joined him silently during his proclamation and the murmuring that had begun at his speaking hushed, leaving one man’s voice to stand out as he said, “To say nothing of his bastard half-brother.”
The corner of Bistane’s eye ticked a bit as he raised his voice. “I do indeed have a half-brother, but he’s no bastard as my father duly married his Dweller lover and has bequeathed them lands and holdings in accordance with Kernan law, as well as with Vaelinar love and decency. Verdayne has been acknowledged and accepted since his birth, and my brother would show far less tolerance for you than I have. He believes in earning an inheritance, you see, not whining for one.”
Bistane rocked back in his stance. “The flag comes down. These are Lariel’s lands and will be respected as such. Those of you following other alliances are being told to quit this encampment and return immediately to your Houses. As for the rest of you, I will repeat what has been suggested a number of times to you: get out. You are squatters here and not welcome.”
“Try to force us out and meet with the wrath of other Vaelinar lords,” someone muttered from the rear of the assembly.
Bistane’s head whipped about to find the speaker and failed as the entire crowd shifted, perhaps to protect the speaker, perhaps out of mutiny, perhaps out of fear of his reaction. The shadows moved in ribbons of ild Fallyn black and silver, in defiance. They were there and they taunted him. His teeth clicked shut on the words he wanted to shout.
A wiry woman, her violet-colored shawl wrapped closely about bone-thin shoulders, called out, “Then let Queen Lariel herself come and tell us. Let her deny us the right to go home to Trevilara. Does she yet live?”
That would be the question. Bistane could not answer, for he hadn’t been to the manor himself yet, but he’d had no word otherwise. Expected none. To his flank, Lieutenant Firan said briskly, “She lives and thrives and when she does come to take you to task, you’ll rue the day.”
But no one moved, except the freckled girl dispatched to take down the flag as ordered, and he could feel their stares on his back as Bistane and the others mounted, reined about, and rode out.
The back of his neck tensed and he put a hand up to rub it. To his flank, Firan rode up to pace him.
“We were informed when you passed the border,” the man told him. He looked well enough, a scar down his left cheekbone that puckered into his throat had healed well as, no doubt, had other scars hidden beneath his uniform. The deformity jarred otherwise handsome features and the hair on that side of his head had gone white, mingling slowly into warm brown tones. He had hazel eyes, of relatively few hues for a Vaelinar, telling Bistane that whatever Talents the man held, they would be light in power. It didn’t matter to his loyalty and soldiering ability. He’d been there for Larandaril years ago and would be there in the future.
“I’d like to see that border closed,” Bistane answered.
“So would we all, like in the old days, but only the queen has that ability.”
“Any change?”
“None that we have noticed. She does seem more restless when you are gone.”
“She moves?”
“We find her position shifts from time to time. Nothing significant, mind you. It may be a tilt of the head or a hip so that one leg may turn over another. The healers move her to keep sores from developing, as you know, but they have noticed differences they did not initiate. Healer Sarota keeps a diary.”
He hadn’t been aware of that. The ten
sion running up the back of his neck cramped down into his shoulders uneasily, but why? He changed his balance in the saddle and shoved his feet deeper into his stirrups, yet nothing seemed to help.
“How is recruiting?”
Firan shrugged. “Difficult. Not like it used to be in the old days. Weather and economies always drove Vaelinar back here to the First Home provinces, but now we lack a general and a Warrior Queen to train them, and put them to use. To offer estates outside Larandaril when their terms were up. The only one effectively recruiting now seems to be the ild Fallyn.” Firan paused to spit his contempt to the ground, just missing the flashing hooves of their horses. “And we’ve always suspected their recruiting consists more of abduction.”
“Difficult to prove, but I agree with you. Who guards the manor?”
“A triad at the doors. It’s been quiet.”
He shot a look over his shoulder at the six who accompanied him. He did not like the numbers and his immediate response as his gut tightened was to shake the reins, and lean over his horse’s neck, asking for speed.
His pulse quickened as the knots in his shoulder and neck tightened, and Bistane felt a fear that he wished he did not hold. The manor house was not far away, but neither was it as close as he needed it to be. He wanted desperately to be wrong, but knew that in all likelihood, he would be far too correct.
The ild Fallyn depended on quiet.
Chapter
Eleven
THE STABLE YARD WAS EMPTY of personnel, but not of horses, which stuck their heads out stall doors and whickered, hooves thudding against wood impatiently. Impatient for being let out to pasture or watered and fed by stable boys who had not appeared. Bistane dismounted before his mount came to a halt, dropping rein and running across the eerily silent courtyard. Firan followed after, calling, “What is it, Lord Bistane?”
He did not have an answer, for he didn’t know what it was, and came to a halt facing the back side of the huge manor, tilting his head back to look up three stories, seeing that the men at the doors as they approached still stood guard. How they could not be aware of the near abandoned stable yard, he didn’t know. There was distance, yes. And the horses were of little concern to them, neighs and whickers only background noises to the life of this part of the estate. Nothing alarming about a hungry horse, unless you knew that no one had been left alive to tend to them. Bistane twisted about.
“Count the dead.”
“The dead?” Firan stumbled to a halt next to him.
“In the stables.” Bistane pointed at the most visible stall where the mare knocked her hoof persistently against the door and tossed a head with the whites of her eyes showing and her nostrils flared in distress. “They smell blood.”
Firan paled, swore, and swung about, drawing his sword with one hand and dispersing the other riders with wild gestures. Bistane hesitated to breach the manor. The enemy might still be hunkered down in the stables, trapped now, knowing their opportunity had been missed.
Or had it?
• • •
He could smell dinner cooking, its aroma wafting from the kitchen door. Spring onions and orange root vegetables and braising meat . . . nothing interrupted the meal preparations in the kitchen. Then why the assault in the stables?
Was he wrong?
Firan had disappeared inside the cavernous barn. He came out, shoulders sagging, one arm dripping blood. “No one,” he called. “Alive.”
He turned and pelted for the back door, yelling “Stand aside!” even as the bewildered guard stumbled forward a few steps in Firan’s direction. “What do you mean, no one alive?”
Bistane shouldered past him. “After the queen! Firan, surround the buildings with whatever men you can. And archers! Find me archers!”
As he flung himself in through the kitchen doorway, in the corner of his eye, he saw a window shutter high up, slam in the wind. Lara’s rooms.
Alarm already raised, all he could do was pelt upstairs as fast as he could, taking the stairs in great leaps, the wood sounding underneath as he conquered them. Lara’s men followed after, shouting in confusion between themselves, and he leaving them behind in his wake. No one stood at her door. There had been for months on end and even when he’d left to take care of his own estate for a span of months, but not today.
Not this moment, when all depended on it. He kicked the door open, uncaring of the wood that splintered or the tremendous crash as it sprang open, or the man who spun about in triumph, his blade flinging blood on the walls as he moved to face Bistane.
Lara’s blood.
He could see her bed, her bier, clearly beyond the assassin’s crouch and saw the blood cascading to the floor, to pool there, wetly crimson, hotly warm, and inevitably fatal.
Or so the assassin must think.
Bistane heard the threshold behind him fill with bodies. Mutters of anger. Sounds of boots filing to the left and right of him, but he locked his sight on the assassin’s face. Clothes, indistinct. Weapon, a common, curved dagger though its edge looked wickedly sharp. No House garb or livery. No badges or jewelry. Hair freshly shorn so Bistane could not tell how it had been worn before.
No telltale eyes of unmistaken House heritage, or complexion, or hair color. The only thing Bistane knew was that this was no Kobrir, and he had come to assassinate Lariel Anderieon regardless.
“Put your weapon down.”
“No surrender.”
“You are a fool if you think you can kill her.”
“I already have.”
Bistane shook his head slowly.
The other smiled thinly. “Too late.”
“Not yet. You might think so, if you did not know what I know.”
“I slit her throat.”
Bistane’s gaze slid behind the boaster, to the floor. “She does not bleed.” He tempted the other to follow his look.
The assassin’s attention wavered. He wanted to look, Bistane could tell that every nerve in his body told him to risk a glance, but he did not dare. Not with a room full of men waiting to close on him, and deadly Bistane far closer than he should be.
“Bled out already.”
“No. She breathes.”
“Her throat grins at the ceiling.”
“Listen. She wheezes. You’ve injured her grievously, indeed, but she lives and she does not bleed.”
Bistane could see her. His heart tore for the agony he saw on her face, in one hand that bunched up helplessly even in her sleep to go to her throat and stop the bleeding. The sounds she began to make, of pain and the effort to breathe, could bring tears to the eyes of those who cared.
As he did. He blinked back whatever reaction he had.
She lived. She hurt terribly. She managed to thrash one leg out and at the sound of her movement, the assassin jumped back, heedless of leaving his flank open, with only one thing on his mind.
To finish the job.
Bistane knew he would move before the assassin himself had decided. He sprang at the killer, striking deep in the flank, splintering ribs aside, puncturing lungs, shoving deep into the torso and then lodging deep in the heart. Spitted, the assassin flailed his knife about, cutting uselessly at the air, blood gushing from his mouth, crying wordlessly in his dying throes. He went to his knees, his eyes locked in horror at his victim who lived despite the viciously cut throat gaping open at him.
“How . . .”
How, indeed. Bistane let the weight on his sword slip to the floor, after giving another thrust and twist to the body impaled on it, hearing the death rattle gurgle out. He stepped over the body to Lara’s side. Her eyelids fluttered. She must hurt. She must know she’d been struck, yet again. She must somehow feel. There wasn’t a sleep deep enough to cocoon her, to protect her from this.
Bistane put his hand over the wound which had already begun to clot. “Get a healer in here! Saro
ta should be about. She lives but needs tending. We need to prevent whatever scarring we can, internally and out.” And he looked to the dagger in her thigh, Sevyrn’s dagger, coated with the Kobrir poison king’s rest that would not let her live, but neither would it let her die.
Not just yet.
And today, for the first time in many, many months, Bistane found himself glad of it. The poison that slowed her body, that entrapped her, was the only thing that kept her alive in this moment.
Firan joined him. He toed the assassin’s body. “Who sent him? He wears no identity.”
“He is ild Fallyn.”
“So I would guess, if I had to, but we can’t guess at this.”
Bistane turned his head slowly and pinned him with a hard look. “This isn’t a guess.”
“My lord, I don’t want to contradict you, but—”
“But nothing.” Bistane pointed his hand, fingertips coated with Lara’s warm blood, at the window. “He broke in from outside, and he didn’t scale the walls to do so. None of the guards at any of the other doors were taken down, and the exit he planned to use was the same one he took coming in. The only damage he did was in the stable, where he must have been discovered when he came in and took refuge there, to observe the manor for the best opportunity.”
“Then how . . .”
“The signature Talent of the ild Fallyn. He levitated.” Bistane straightened as the healer came running in, pale of face, her apprentice behind her with a bowl of fragrant water and a bag of clean cloths.
“Levitated,” Firan repeated. “We won’t be able to prove it. We can’t confront Lady Tressandre with this.”
“No, we can’t.” Bistane showed his teeth briefly. A soft moan of pain escaped the sleeping Lariel and he winced. “But I won’t be forgetting it, either.”
A guardsman called from the hallway, “My lord, one of the men has found the mount the assassin used. He is holding it for your inspection.”
