The Queen of Storm and Shadow

by Jenna Rhodes

  “Evidently. And as I do love it when you caress my ass, it should be protected. Make a note of that as soon as we get upstairs.”

  And so he did.

  Tolby unrolled the message scroll, small and precise as it must be. He read carefully.

  Lara, Warrior Queen of Larandaril, sends greetings and hopes of good health. I have planned a visit to Calcort to celebrate the engagement of myself and Bistane Vantane and begin a long overdue acquaintance with the children Merri and Evarton. Expect arrival soonest.

  He let the slip of paper snap back in his fingers.

  “Engaged? She is engaged?” Nutmeg bounced to his side, eager hands reaching for and capturing the message from him. “I imagine you’ll be at the shop, too.” Tolby raised an eyebrow at her.

  “With Lara?”

  “Who else? The queen has announced her engagement, has she not? I expect there’s a need for a fancy gown or two, aye?”

  Nutmeg’s hand flew to her mouth. “Bright apples! That almost completely flew over my head. She finally took a look at Bistane!”

  “And liked what she saw, sounds as if. She’s made a power match, for certain, and one hopes love is worked in there, too. I know Bistane has had eyes on her since he was a boy who could see.”

  “Think he’ll be good for her?”

  Tolby nodded. “It spans beyond my years, but from all the tales I’ve heard, his father Bistel loved only two women in his long life, Bistane’s Vaelinar mother and then the Dweller woman who birthed Verdayne. I’m not saying there might not have been a dalliance or two through the centuries, but Bistel had a strong heart, he did.”

  “I thought that of him.”

  “And rightfully so. I think Bistane is an apple that will not fall far from that tree, and Verdayne as well.”

  Nutmeg shook her head as if to dodge a truth in his words she wasn’t ready to hear. Instead she read the message again. “I can’t believe she’s coming here.”

  “And why not? She’s eager to see the babes and she has recruitment to begin. Her losses were considerable and although Bistane has been able to hold his domain and hers, that cannot continue indefinitely. She has to rebuild her troops and I imagine she’ll be looking to Kernans and Dwellers to do so, the ranks of the Vaelinars being thin.” Tolby took his pipe from his mouth and examined it for a moment before continuing. “She’s right if she thinks I won’t be ‘allowing’ my family to move back to her manor.”

  Nutmeg’s jaw set. “It’s my family.”

  “What? Oh. Well, that it is, that it is. Yours and . . . hmmmpf, well. Your decision.”

  “Not that your advice isn’t well noted and often taken.”

  A small cloud of blue smoke drifted up.

  “Where will she stay?”

  “Oh, at the mayor’s inn, I imagine. For sleeping and eating, but doubt she’ll be there for much else.”

  “Then I expect I had better start cleaning.” Nutmeg inhaled deeply.

  “Your mother would appreciate that.”

  “I had planned to start working there half-days, now that the children are grown a bit.”

  “Yes, you need a life beyond the needs of small children. Not that your days aren’t busy, but your mother and I see a young woman who can handle more.”

  Nutmeg shifted uneasily as her father’s words hit a little too close to home. She picked up her shawl against a raw spring wind that had picked up outside. “I think I should have a word with Mom about the letter. Clean house or a ready workshop.”

  “If I know your mother,” and his eye gleamed a bit, “and I daresay I do, she’ll manage to have both.”

  Nutmeg pulled her shawl tight. “I’ll be back before luncheon,” she called out, as much to her auntie as to her father.

  “If not, I expect Corrie can handle it.” Tolby clamped his pipe and added, “I’ll be in the cider barn.” Tolby watched his daughter go out the farmhouse door and begin her short walk down the lane. “Pot calling the kettle black,” he muttered to himself. “Good thing I’ve got a pipe to stick in my mouth and not say what I can’t bring back.” He put his shoulders back with a mild grunt as his spine creaked a bit before making his way out to the cider barn. Dayne should hear the news as well, and who better to give it to him? The lad was made of the same stout stuff as his father and brother. Still, curiosity prickled at Tolby as he wondered how his audience would take the news.

  Corrie slid away from the doorway as heavy treads moved outside. She looked into the playroom where Evarton listened to Merri’s babbled instructions on whatever it was they were building with their busy little hands clasped around their blocks. They would be occupied for a few moments at least, until Evar tired of his sister’s bossiness. She slipped into the small, adjunct bedroom that served as her quarters.

  It was, truth be told, as big as the small room that had served as her bedroom with her husband, but it seemed much smaller than any other room in the vast farmhouse, in comparison. She ought not to be comparing. She ought to be grateful for what she had, a good job as an auntie for a year or two, enabling her husband to work his farm free and clear of debt after the drought. Ought to be, but this position now strangled her, closing in about her heart and throat until she could scarcely think. All that she loved she no longer saved but put in deepest jeopardy.

  She sat at her desk, a shelf that hung down from the wall, over the sink basin, and took out a tiny scrap of paper, her pen, and ink. Laboriously, for her work-worn hand could barely cramp small enough to make the letter as dainty as it needed to be and when she’d finished and blotted, her knuckles stung. Corrie reread the paper to make certain she’d said what she ought, before tidying away her supplies in a lower drawer of the wash basin and folding the shelf up against the wall.

  She had no writing desk at home. Nothing but a table, worn and sanded now and then against the outrages of everyday living, the nicks and stains. But it had been her table, and her grandmother’s before that. Corrie sighed. She slipped the paper into her pocket as she stood.

  “Merri! Evarton! It’s a beautiful day. Shall we go for a walk? If you behave, there might be a candy twist waiting for you.”

  She could hear the blocks falling as two little bodies scrambled to get to their feet. By the time they reached their doorway, she had their little duster coats ready to hand to them.

  “Where we going?”

  “Where? Hmmm.” She seemed to consider. “We could go out to the vineyard.”

  Merri wrinkled her nose. “Smelly.”

  Indeed, it was. Tolby and Verdayne had just sprayed it a day or two before, to protect against voracious insects getting to the fruit just beginning to emerge from the blossoms. “Right on that. Where else?”

  “I want to see the birds.” Evar smiled winningly up at her.

  “The messengers?”

  Merri bounced. “Dose ones!”

  Corrie returned their cheer. “All right, then.” She opened the door to shoo them out. “It’s a long walk. Don’t dawdle!”

  As she went through the threshold, she checked her pocket to make sure she had the letter and a coin for payment secreted deep within.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Nine

  TRESSANDRE STRIPPED HER GLOVES off her hands, back half-turned to her seneschal, who stood tentatively in the threshold of her audience room.

  “I take it this is something that cannot wait until I’ve cleaned and dined?”

  “Best not to, my lady.” His voice faltered on the last word and Tressandre frowned in response. She came around.

  “What is it, then?”

  “It concerns our high pastures.”

  She glowered at him, a line like a dagger deepening between her honey-colored brows. “What of them?” They’d been seized at great risk two centuries ago, but neither Bistel nor Lariel had gone to war over it, though they could hav
e. Instead, what passed for a Vaelinar tribunal ordered fines which went to those of Kerith who had owned the lands, and the matter had been forgotten. “They comprise some of our best meadowlands. How could I forget them? We are horse-breeders, Waryn, not farmers.” And lumberjacks and mercenaries and slavers. And damned goat herders, for only the goats could live as they did, leaping from sheer rock to sheer rock. She waited for the tall, spare man, with his one shoulder twisted out of sync with the rest of his body, an injury that had never healed straight, incurred in a fight with Alton when she and her brother had been very young. They had been deadly even then, she thought with a little pride, and tilted her head to encourage the man to finish his message.

  “We had to bring the herd there down and pasture them elsewhere. The pass should be blocked off so that they won’t return if they get loose.”

  “And why must we do that?”

  “It’s gone bad, my lady.”

  She didn’t need to hear this now, not now or at all. She rubbed the ball of her thumb over the strong bridge of her nose. “How can that be? Weeds? We can bring in sprayers and have that sorted out in a season or two. Damming the pass seems a bit overreactive for that, don’t you think?”

  He shifted weight uneasily. “The wranglers have seen a leakage from the badlands nearby.”

  “A leak?”

  “Chaos.”

  “Waste from the Mageborn Wars. The twisted magic.”

  “Yes, and a substantial flow. It’s perverting much of the area.”

  “How bad?”

  “We’d had one three-legged colt and one two-headed colt born this spring. And . . . other things are infiltrating the meadows. Vermin. Predators, mutated, that shouldn’t be there. They put any animals we have on the range at great risk.”

  She should not be surprised as she’d seen this befouling before. “Plant aryns.” The only good ever to come out of House Vantane, as far as she and hers were concerned. The trees thrived on a bit of chaos.

  “We did twenty years back. They can no longer cleanse what is leaking in; it’s too massive a breach. Nor do I think we will be able to obtain more, under the present circumstances.”

  Betrayed by the Vantanes again. Even their precious, dear-held trees could not keep her meadowlands clear. What use either of them, then? Her frown deepened, to the bone it felt like. “You’ve cleared the area?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we must obtain additional pastures. First, is the incursion of the badlands known? Do the Kernans bandy about gossip and talk behind their hands about the misshapen foals?”

  “The village is not what it used to be. Winters have grown too harsh for them, and much of the population has moved on. But those left behind, yes, they know what’s happened.”

  “Good. Remind them that the land is tainted when you take new but clean pastures from them.”

  “My lady . . .”

  “What did you fail to understand?” She stared at a spot on his brow.

  “Nothing. Will we pay for these new fields?”

  “As little coin as you can. We are, after all, doing them a favor as we move the last of them out of their homes or they might be subjected to the Mageborn waste as well. Ensure they understand how benevolent we’re being. Then get the trees, I don’t care how, raid the damn orchard if you must—Bistane is still playing at guardian for Lariel and Gods only know where the half-breed has gone to these days, so the estate is far from fully-manned. Plant the aryns as soon as you can, before the summer heat makes it disadvantageous, and we’ll plant a second grove in the fall. We won’t save that pasture, but we can’t afford a spread.” She slapped her gloves against the thigh of her riding pants. “Bad luck, then. All right, let the wranglers know they’ve done the right thing, but don’t . . .” She paused for a long moment, thinking. “Don’t block the pass.”

  “My lady?”

  Tressandre smiled slightly. “Having a bit of perverted magic handy might be a distinct advantage, don’t you think? There was a time when we had the Talent to use that Chaos. Who knows? Our program might bring that ability back. It would be a shame to have made the ashes of the Mageborn unavailable.”

  “My lady, yours are the strategic skills. I merely do my best to implement them.” Waryn bowed, a slight crease of pain etching across his face that faded when he straightened. His bones popped faintly as he did.

  “Neither of us is bound to forget that.” Tressandre dropped her gloves on a nearby table. “I will be dining alone in my rooms.”

  “I shall notify the staff.” He bowed again and left, a little stiffness in his gait. He was not pure-blooded, by ild Fallyn standards, although a good bit of his bloodline had been recovered through their programs. He showed it, however, in the aging of his body. She ought to be making plans for the seneschal who would replace him, when the time came. It would be sooner than expected; it always was with these races of Kerith who had nothing like the life span the Vaelinar held.

  “Oh.” He came to a stop, having remembered something.

  “Yes?”

  “The harvest you ordered commandeered has been taken successfully, and traded. The Guild reports that monies have already been deposited in estate accounts.”

  “Paperwork?”

  “All done by handshake. Untraceable.”

  “Excellent. Plan the next one.”

  Smiling, he left again.

  “Waryn.”

  He stopped three paces beyond the threshold and moved about to face her. “Yes, my lady?”

  “Find that young man . . . Borvan?”

  “The tall one? All meat and muscle?”

  “Yes.” Her mouth curved in memory. “That would be him. Have him cleaned and sent up to my rooms. Oh, and a draught of kedant, as well.”

  He bowed in response and left again, Tressandre smiling faintly in his wake. He had tried but could not quite suppress the dislike in his expression when she’d mentioned the viper poison, but he had never found it as useful as she had. In proper quantities, that should be noted. Tressandre trailed her fingers over her jacket, to her buttons, and began to undo them one by one as she took the bank of stairs to the rooms of her apartment.

  She did not, however, hear the steps of an eager lover moving down the hallway to her open door. Instead, a bump and scuffle and shuffle gave her pause. Danger? No. It sounded like two of her staff fought each other at the top of the stairs.

  “You bring her the news. You downed the bird and rode here with the scroll.”

  “She’ll kill the messenger. You know that as well as I. Give it to one of the servants and let them grovel for their life. I won’t. I’ve trained for my position, and I won’t lose my life because I’ve done it and done it well.”

  “You have only accomplished half the task.”

  “And dying at her hand is the other half?”

  “Your duty is the other half.”

  “My duty was upheld when I delivered the message here. Now you’re the one who refuses to complete the task.”

  “Me? I’m only an apprentice scribe.”

  Tressandre overheard as much as she cared to before rebuttoning her jacket, sitting at her desk, and shouting to the hallway, “Quit scuffling and someone discover their balls. If there is a message, it needs to be delivered.”

  A sudden quiet fell outside her apartment. Not for the first or last time, she wished that Alton were lounging in the chair nearby, for it would have been he who got to his feet and went to fetch the errant messenger and message. She waited and not patiently. After a long moment, the huntsman entered.

  She looked him up and down. Pale under his tan, he looked as if he’d ridden a decent way, covered with dust and dried sweat upon his face. He would not look her in the eye but held out a message tube, still sealed with the wax and appropriate signet of Larandaril.

  “I am well
aware that the Warrior Queen has been revived. What other ill news could come out of her kingdom?” She snatched the tube from his palm and peeled it open. Before unrolling it, she grabbed the huntsman by the tip of his ear. “Perhaps you heard gossip on the road?”

  “N-no, milady. Nothing. I took no time to stop once I shot the bird down.”

  She put her hand under his chin to force his gaze up. “Am I that fearsome?”

  He froze for a long moment before saying reluctantly, “Yes.”

  “Good. I am someone you should fear.” Tressandre turned her attention back to the message tube, opening it and sliding the scroll free into her hand. “When did you bring the bird down?”

  “Yester eve, milady. They sent flights out near sunset.”

  “Really?” That meant they were of some importance, to send the birds out so close to night and their nesting time. She crumbled the wax seal off between her fingertips, sharp nails shredding the wax. Her eyebrows knotted toward each other as she narrowed her gaze to read the paper and fine, small writing upon it. She would have to find a healer skilled with eyes, Tress thought fleetingly, for she was getting a bit long-sighted. She focused on reading.

  The words burned into her and her hand fisted about the paper, going white-knuckled. The huntsman stood his ground, but the blood drained out of his face so that he looked as white as the parchment she’d just crushed in her hand.

  “You may go.”

  The huntsman inclined his head and fled with long strides. Tressandre had dropped her head in thought, but she watched him leave through bangs the color of dark and wild honey. In another lifetime, she might have steered him to her bed. Sometimes fear made sex all the sweeter. But not today.

  She yelled for Waryn. She could hear the hallways fill with skittering boot steps as the search began for her seneschal.

  Tressandre uncurled her hand. She picked the wad of paper out and put it on the desk, smoothing it out just enough so that Waryn would be able to read it for himself. A bitter laugh escaped her.

  “Sooner or later, this alliance between north and south would come about. I knew it, we all knew it—Bistane has haunted your shadow for years, unwilling or perhaps even unable to look elsewhere. But this is a match you should never have considered making, for it leaves Abayan Diort to me.” She spread the missive out a bit more. “He will want to listen to me.”