The Queen of Storm and Shadow

by Jenna Rhodes

  Lara nodded after a long moment’s thought. “I’ll take that under consideration. Being a teacher, however, might undermine the position you already hold in the family. It’s settled, then. We bring in teachers as soon as possible.”

  “Understandable.” Nutmeg scratched at her temple, thinking, and added, “But don’t replace Auntie Corrie. She’s been wonderful with them.”

  “No. Of course not.” She let Bistane guide her to the door, fatigue of thought slowing her more than anything else. Nutmeg watched her go, realizing that she knew days like that, when it hurt more to think and plan than it did to actually live. Days when the first light of sun hurt like a slap across the face, when the first audible noise screamed in the ears, when the thought of just existing felt too painful to consider. The chasm of not being stretched in front of her, seemingly too formidable to cross.

  It had been far worse when she’d first lost Jeredon. Now she hardly considered it, except for when she had to make these decisions about their children. Odd, that. A pain she’d never realized had been healing. After the door shut behind them, she swung on Dayne. “When did you figure out the toffee apples?”

  “Oh, not long ago,” he said, backing up. “Just a day or so ago, really.” He ducked his head. “Taking a pipe, Tolby? I’ll join you outside for a smoke, myself.” And he was gone before she could say anything else.

  Chapter

  Thirty-Seven

  LATE SUMMER EVENING HAD FALLEN, and the Farbranch homestead had given up to peace and quiet as the children were finally put to sleep, and the last of the kitchen was cleaned up and prepared for the next day. Lanterns in the cider barn had been shuttered, as well as the great doors, and even the stables seemed quiet with only an occasional shuffle in straw as a horse lay down or a pony got up to rattle at his feed bucket. Dayne’s pipe barely warmed the palms of his hands as he held it and contemplated the ash growing cold.

  Nutmeg slipped out of the back door and came to sit with him. He scooted over to give her ample room, but she sat close enough that their shoulders and thighs almost touched. The aura she gave off was warmer and far more fragrant, smelling of herbs and spices from whatever tomorrow’s baking might warrant and her own scent which had always intrigued him.

  She gave a short sigh, pushing her heavy hair off her shoulders and twisting it into a knot at the nape of her neck. “I am thinking of going back to work.”

  “Truly?”

  “Reluctantly, but yes. Mother reminded me while we were making packets for tomorrow’s lunch of the one thing Tolby will not admit.”

  “And that is?”

  “That he is growing old. There will come a day, sooner rather than later, when his body will fail him when he needs it most.” She paused. “Do you know why Garner stays away from the family?”

  He’d only met the eldest wandering Farbranch son once, and that briefly, for the naming celebration for the twins. Garner had come home on a whim, it seemed, mildly amused that he could be there to celebrate as well, and had left as quietly as he’d arrived. “No.”

  “Because Garner told me that Dad won’t let him go. He raised us all to be good, fierce adults, but he doesn’t want to let us go.”

  “Do you miss your brother?”

  “I’m used to it now, so days can go by before I lift my head and think: I wonder where Garner is. What’s he up to? Is he planning a family, or will he be a rover, and how will I know?”

  She shrugged. “He has his own ideas to follow. Now Hosmer . . . he is as steady as a rock wall, so I don’t have to worry that Dad won’t have anyone t’ lean upon. Keldan stays now because of the horse trade, but he might be tempted to leave someday, to ride the wind.”

  “Not meaning to offend or argue with you, but I don’t think Tolby is going to go feeble on you any time soon.”

  “It’s not that. But when you and I were taken, he faced Vaelinars with abilities he couldn’t counter. Any man is bound to fail against the likes of an attacker who can leap higher than the house.”

  “He gave a cold-damned good try. If not for the fire, we might have routed them.”

  “Might. Might. And his heart could go out while he tried to fend them off the next time.” She sighed again. “You know they will try again. All the harder if anything we suspect about Evar and Merri proves true. They’ll either be taken to use as a weapon against Lara, or they’ll be slaughtered outright.” She put the heels of her hands to her eyes as her voice broke. “I couldn’t live through that, Dayne. I can’t lose them! I have to keep them safe and happy, close, somehow, some way!”

  “You won’t lose them. We’ll stand in the way.”

  “It would be better with a troop of Lara’s and Bistane’s best to stand with you, and she can’t afford to station a troop here. Not now, with her ranks so thinned.”

  He dropped his head a bit. “I’d have to stay with Tolby. The books and all.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought. And your estates, too, of course.” The knot at the back of her head unraveled on its own, almost as if connected to her plans.

  “We might be able to move our operations to Larandaril, but then Tolby would not be part of it because I doubt he’ll go, and he is the master.”

  “I understand.”

  “If I were you, and I’m not, but if I were, I’d keep them here at home as long as you can. Your hand and Tolby’s, Lily’s and Keldan and Hosmer . . . those are the hands and voices you need raising them, at least for a few years longer, as long as you let them grow. Any teachers they have will be neutral. Cold, even. That’s the way of Vaelinaran teachers. Trust me.”

  “You know.”

  “I do. The Vaelinars have few children and adore the ones they do, but they are turned over to teachers, not like your teachers but tutors who feel they must not favor. Must not encourage. Must not love.” His tone roughened a bit, with his memories.

  “You can’t plant a seed or sapling without giving it water. Compost. Sunshine.”

  “But these seedlings are already growing and they, those tutors, fear to be a wind that might twist the growth in one way or another. All they offer are words. And, from what I know of young Evarton, they might have to be stern ones now and then.”

  That made her laugh slightly. “I’ll keep them close for a while longer, then and see who she sends. And I’ll do as you want, look on them with closer eyes, and see if I can help them unlock themselves. You were right to tell me they weren’t babies any longer.” She patted him on the knee. “It’s agreed, then. They’ll go to Larandaril when we’re prepared.”

  Neither of them heard the door open faintly behind them, a small crack, through which Corrie watched and heard, as she had partially during their earlier conference. Things she was being paid to tell, paid with the lives of her family: Larandaril’s borders soon to be closed and now, the children to be taken back. She would have to send word. Fearfully, she eased the door shut and left, her heart thumping unevenly in worry.

  “Decided. But not until you and Tolby are ready,” Dayne added.

  “Not until we are good and ready.” Nutmeg smiled, at ease.

  • • •

  When Lara and Bistane returned in the morning, little more was said between them. The Warrior Queen got down on her stomach in the playroom and learned how to play with her heirs, Bistane offering strategy now and again. In the afternoon, they worked the vineyards with Tolby and taught the twins how to drive the small pony cart up and down the rows. Evar, thanks to his taller stature and leaner muscle, had a knack for it. Smaller and chubbier Merri’s response to the pony pulling on the reins was to fall over giggling as if the beast had said something outrageous to her, and perhaps it had. When she clambered down out of the cart and went to walk by the pony’s head, it rested its muzzle on her shoulder and followed her sedately down the row of grapevines. Lara raised an eyebrow at that, looking to Keldan who nodded at her.


  They shared a family dinner at which Lara announced she would be leaving in the morning after a talk at the mayor’s inn, aimed at recruiting new troops for Larandaril, but she’d come back soon.

  “An’ Bis’ane?” Merri asked.

  “Most especially Bistane.”

  The little girl’s face lit up. Bistane put his hand over his heart.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve seen the future. That smile will have a hundred men and more on their knees.”

  Merri looked at her nose, eyes crossing, as if to see whatever Bistane saw, and frowned when they all laughed. She shrank back at the chorus. Evarton put his hand out to pat her in comfort. Auntie Corrie came in from her room and gathered the children up for a bath and so that the rest of them could talk amongst themselves, but no one had much to say except for Hosmer who warned them about certain Calcort families who might or might not volunteer and what their agenda might be.

  “Although,” he finished, “I doubt you’ll be wanting to turn anyone away.”

  “We may have to. As you would say, one bad apple turns the barrel rotten. I need troops, but I can afford to be discerning about who I accept into our ranks. Still, I’m pleased to hear your thoughts on the matter, particularly with the squatters I already am confronting. I thank you for your insight.”

  At that, Lily got up and brought in two pies and sent Meg for a fresh pitcher of cream and crockery to serve the pies on, and conversation fell quiet again. When Lara left for the evening, she did not ask Nutmeg if or when she was coming, and Meg did not tell her. They hugged briefly, and then the Warrior Queen was gone. It would be a day-to-day decision, one that she would keep as close to her as her apron. She thought upon Garner again, and Sevryn and Rivergrace who felt as though they must have gone beyond death, but she would not count it as such. After all, had she not stood on the road and watched them both return full of life once already? So many had truly gone; she didn’t want to think on others that weren’t certainties. And she had friends who she might never meet again beyond her knowing.

  So much in all of this was beyond her knowing. Her thoughts spun a bit hopelessly before she caught fast on the fact that she had family, and for now that would keep her busy enough. The others would have to bide their time.

  In the cliff dwellings where Rufus lived as the eldest chief any of the Bolgers ever chanted about or remembered in their many centuries among the lands of the First Home, a summer night fell. Rufus fell into sleep early, as befit his tired bones and leathery frame, but he roused midway through the night, wide awake and staring at the stars through a deliberate rent in his dwelling, awakened by a dream of his death. He rumbled to himself, remembering it fitfully, a vision of dying amidst the other folk of Kerith, so different and disdainful of his own people. He was more a beast than a man by their standards, he knew, he’d always known. Yet he counted some of them amongst his closest friends, the Vaelinaran beauty he called Little Flower who others named Rivergrace among them. This nightmare had been a dream of her.

  He knew it was a death dream because he’d felt himself dying, his heart lunging in his chest beating wildly and the blood pouring out of an immense gouge in his right flank, and his eyes going dim even as he beheld a bridge of rainbow beauty. The air held the metallic tang of blood and more death. The air thundered with screams and warfare. It felt to him as the end of all days not just his own. He held a clear, singular memory of sight and sensation as Nutmeg, the Dweller sister of his Little Flower, clutched his hand tightly and tried to staunch his bleeding. Nutmeg’s face was the last sight his fading eyes caught.

  Rufus did not fall back asleep. He had had such dreams before and heeded them, and although his time had come very close then, he found himself still very much alive—if bone-aching and muscle weary and greatly aged among his people. He did not know why he’d outlived all of his peers though he thought perhaps the Vaelinars had cursed him with a touch of their own longevity so that he could remain embroiled in their plots. He thought long and hard on what he remembered of his vision. Ordinarily, he would have discussed it with his shaman who had been a Bolger with great wisdom and insight, but that friend, too, had passed a handful of seasons ago. He did not trust the new shaman who was too young and relied too much on gossip from the other clans and villagers to be well-versed and confident in his own shamanism. What did a shaman so green know of experience? He also thought that a nightmare of death would not be considered odd or unexpected by the young Bolger, for the end of life must surely be near one carrying the years that Rufus did, and a view of rainbows would seem most auspicious.

  Rufus didn’t think so.

  He levered himself up from his bed which was little more than a woven blanket stuffed with fragrant rushes and leaves. Pallets had been adopted in most of their clan sites, but he thought of them as annoyingly soft. His bones had grown into adulthood bedded down on the forge hearths of Quendius’ weapon mills. A good blanket held enough comfort for him. As he moved, the aroma of crushed herbs surrounded him, intended to soothe aches and a clouded mind, and promote sleep. Rufus grunted as he squatted by his fire pit. He’d left it banked, for hot as the days were now, he oft times felt damp and cold at night. His age, again, he knew it well. He stretched his neck one way and then the other, hearing sharp crackles and snaps, and then did the same to his back. He put his arms out, flexing them against old wounds and bone spurs and the other ailments that plagued him, but he could not discount the knowledge that, despite his years, he had all four limbs, and yes, even the fingers attached to his hands, although one crooked one would no longer bend. He used to be able to remember when he’d injured that finger so, but it escaped him now. He pulled his packs out and began to stow items, sorting through carefully, placing things to stay behind in significant piles as was tradition for the women to come in and tidy a dead Bolger’s residence. This for the heirs. This for the Gods. These for the clan’s good. When done, Rufus laced his packs and hefted them over his shoulder, letting out a low grunt of effort as he did so, then clamping his thin lips shut tightly against any future sound.

  He paused his preparations long enough to seek out his clan’s ruling chieftain: his grandson, a Bolger much wiser in the ways of the First Home and even Vaelinars than Rufus thought one could ever be, their world being what it was. They were a defeated people, kept down and often in financial slavery, but now their stature had grown and chieftains had to treat with them, even with those who drove them away from towns. Rufus was not fond of the tusks that had been ground down so much that they barely protruded from Bylar’s jaws, but it made for effective speech. The other folk were fond of much talk. He himself was not, even from Little Flower and her Dweller sister who talked even more so, but he could listen. He learned much that way.

  He hunkered down in the long tent, the clan communal building, across from Bylar who worked at making a leather sheath, his strong fingers propelling the needle through quickly and finely. It would be a very nice piece of work when finished, a handicraft Rufus knew his old eyes were no longer up to.

  “I leave.”

  Bylar glanced at him and paused long enough to scratch an even fingernail under his jaw. “Now, I see. Where to?”

  “I go see Spice.” Rufus’s name for Nutmeg, better than Big Talker, although not as apt, he thought. Nutmeg had not liked being called Big Talker.

  Bylar nodded. “No word on Rivergrace or Sevryn yet?”

  Rufus shook his head.

  “Do you need trade goods to take into Calcort?”

  He shook his head again. He thought a long moment before tapping the small leather bag he’d tied about his neck and put under his leather apron, bringing it to Bylar’s attention. “Not be back.”

  Bylar put aside the leather sheath and needle. “Grandfather,” he said, and took up Rufus’ free hand. “Are you certain?”

  Rufus grunted. He shifted away at the emoti
on he saw brimming in his grandson’s eyes. It was both painful and good to know he would be missed, as he would miss his family. “Dreams.”

  Bylar nodded. “But the Dweller needs you?”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Then you may return to us yet.” Bylar squeezed his hand. “We will chant for you.”

  “I have much pride in you.” Rufus made himself say the words carefully, this Kernan talk, so much more complicated and expressive than their speech had been. Few spoke it now. His mastery over it faded with every year, the Bolgers having no need for the language of a long-lost past. He held his grandson’s hand tightly a moment longer before letting it go. “I have made friends for you, for my tribe. They should stand by you.” His own tusked mouth ill-spoke what he had to say, but he could see in Bylar’s eyes that he understood. He stood up, drawing himself tall. “Scatter my things at the last chant. My house is sorted.”

  “We will do you honor.” Bylar stood as well. When he straightened, Rufus found himself surprised and impressed. His grandson surpassed him now in height. With a slap to the other’s shoulder, he took what he felt certain would be his final leave of his blood and his tribe.

  The herdsman asked no questions when he cut out his mule from the stock and saddled him up. He picked out a second mule and loaded it with the packs and goods he thought he would need.

  Only the two of them—Chief Bylar and the herdsman—watched him ride out into the thinning rays of the morning sun. It did not matter that no one else saw. They would tell of it in the chanting, when his time came.

  Chapter

  Thirty-Eight

  THE DAY GLOWED BRIGHT HOT along the packed dirt streets of the quarter. Even the vineyards shimmered in the light, waves of heat rising off the vines and tendrils and clusters of tiny, immature grapes. Few people were out and about at this point in the summer day, attending to their business indoors until the sun’s merciless rays began to slant and shadows could fall easier over Calcort. The sullen river flowing across the city’s edges did little to ease the heat, but added to the humidity hanging over its territory. The wise, who’d lived many summers in Calcort, did as they did every summer and left the heat and the humidity to the young and foolish.