The Queen of Storm and Shadow

by Jenna Rhodes

  Dayne took a chance. “Chief Rufus?”

  “No chief for a long time. Warlord’s son?”

  “Aye, Verdayne. They call me Dayne.”

  The Bolger gave another grunt and took the knife away. “Get animals before they leave. Hungry, they go.”

  Dayne backtracked to his horse and when he came out of the bush, the old chieftain had both his mules in hand. A great, shoulder-bowed beast he was, his skin now more of a burnished brown than the russet it had been, his hair gone to only a few bristles of silver on his head and a tuft or two on his chin, although the chest covered by an old blacksmith’s leather apron showed a thick hedge of russet-and-gray hair. He put his hand out for Dayne to shake, hand to wrist.

  When Rufus dropped his hold, he surveyed Dayne up and down. “You are Nutmeg’s man?”

  “Yes. Well, that is, we’re spoken for each other but not married. Yet. Soon, I hope.”

  “Then why out here?” Rufus, brow wrinkling, looked up.

  “It’s a long story, but Nutmeg’s children have been taken.”

  Rufus hmphfed deep in his chest. “Long story can wait for dinner. Mules need grass. I need food.” He pointed down the way where the others had disappeared into the forest. “We not catch up till dark.”

  “Graze the animals. We’ll have dinner with the others. Just how long have you been tracking me?” Dayne asked as they walked toward the sunset.

  “Since mare picked up stone. I have story, too. Wanted to have right listeners.”

  “You have to show me how to move that quietly with two mules.”

  A smile creased the old Bolger’s face. “Deal.”

  Chapter

  Forty-Three

  RUFUS TURNED THE TRAIL BISCUIT about in his hands several times, peering down at it, leathery forehead wrinkled in observation. He sniffed at it suspiciously. Dinner fare steeped in the pot, and Dayne counted himself lucky that it was a big pot and would feed them all. He’d surprised them when they’d caught up to the camp, but Tolby had thumped Rufus on his shoulder before going out to stake the mules on the horse line. He grinned at the Bolger’s hesitation.

  “Just grain and seeds and dried berries.”

  Rufus dug a nail at it. He picked out a seed. “What?”

  “Oh. That’s a—” Dayne peered at it from across the campfire. “Sunface seed. A cheery little yellow flower with this nutty center. Tastes good. Really.”

  Rufus rolled back on his rump, still examining the seed. “From where?”

  “They grow around Calcort. And south. They take a lot of sun. Warmth. Seeds are a little hard to digest but healthy for you. We press an oil from them as well, but they’re popular in baked goods. Muffins and cookies and the like.”

  Rufus put the seed to his mouth and took an extremely long time to taste, chew, and swallow one relatively small seed. Dayne didn’t know whether it was because of his age, or teeth, or suspicion. The Bolger nodded. “Sunface.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Understand.” He tucked the rest of the trail biscuit into his apron and patted it as if to assure himself which pocket contained it, then frowned and withdrew something from another pocket. “I am old.” His bald, leathery forehead wrinkled deeply.

  “You are long-lived among your people,” Dayne assured him.

  Rufus rolled an eye at him. “Pocket reminded me. I need Pipe Smoke. Something to give him. It is why I trailed you.”

  “I can give it to him.”

  Rufus shook his head wearily. “No. I carry it.” He patted Dayne on the knee. “Is not a good thing. My sorrow.”

  Dayne looked at him, but could not see what the Bolger’s long fingers gripped in his other hand, eyes squinted a little in distress, and he decided not to press him. “All right, then.” The campfire lent little illumination against the deep of the night, but he could see Tolby’s silhouette across the way at the horse line. Dayne straightened to go fetch Tolby.

  Tolby joined them, smelling of the horses and mules he’d been grooming. He folded his legs and sat down cheerfully next to Rufus. “Looking good, Rufus. Still wearing your apron.”

  Rufus curled a lip back. “Good armor.”

  “That it be.” Tolby pulled his pipe out and examined it. “Want a pinch of weed?”

  Rufus shook his head slowly. He put his hand out on Tolby’s. “Stop. I have . . .” The Bolger’s deep voice broke a little. He did not finish his sentence but turned one of Tolby’s hands over and dropped a small bundle into it. “Found it on body.”

  Tolby tucked his pipe back into a vest pocket before opening the cloth, the bloodstain dried and stiff. He looked at the amulet necklace for a long moment, saying nothing, although his breathing grew harsh. Dayne felt ice grow in the pit of his stomach. He’d last seen that amulet hanging about Garner Farbranch’s neck.

  Rufus rumbled, “Died fighting.”

  “Did he?” Tolby’s hands began to shake, and he pressed his palms tightly together, cupping the amulet. “Where? When?”

  “Not far. Not long. Died in trade caravan. Guard. Only one fought.”

  Tolby rubbed his thumb over the items. “You’re sure?”

  Rufus nodded.

  Tolby closed a fist about the object. “I always thought someday he’d bring a wife home. Maybe a babe, too, just to meet with family before he was off again. My good lad. Always restless, he was always so footloose.” His breath gargled a bit in his throat and he cleared it roughly. “You said it was close?”

  Rufus nodded.

  Tolby’s eyes narrowed. “Near here? Who in the cold hells would attack a caravan train this close?”

  Rufus shifted, dug into his apron pockets, and produced another bit of cloth which he handed to Tolby. “Destroyed all to hide, but I found.”

  Tolby unrolled the sleeve. “Black and silver. Bloody ild Fallyn.”

  “Bandits. Caravans smashed. Waterskins, jugs, all drained. Bad smell. Drugs,” Rufus told him, speaking laboriously through his tusked teeth. “No one fight back but him.” He poked a finger at the amulet. “He fought hard. Too many.” Rufus growled lowly. “You take to Spice. You take to Lara guard. You tell.”

  “Ild Fallyn drugged their water supply and then hit them on the trail?”

  Dayne shifted as he sifted through Rufus’ words. “Looks like.”

  “Any survivors? Maybe someone crawled off the road and hid?”

  Rufus shook his head.

  “Cargo?”

  “Gone. Was grain, much of it. Everyt’ing else smashed.” He leaned forward, adding, “No traders in caravan.”

  “No traders? They always carry a trader or two. Apprentice, if no one else. Are you certain? How can you tell?”

  Rufus sat back, giving Tolby a little resentful look. “No soft men or women. No rich rags. Only hired. Tough people. I saw. Skraws at work, eating, ripping. You not see.”

  Tolby waved the sleeve. “But I have this. Did you bring a waterskin?”

  Rufus thought a moment before nodding. “One. Red stripes.”

  “I’ll take that, too. Maybe someone can identify the drugs.” Tolby took a hard breath, and his eyes brimmed a little as he looked at Dayne. “I can’t stay with you, then. I have to go back. I won’t be letting the ild Fallyn get away with this, either. They killed my son as well as took my grandchildren.” It took him two tries to get to his feet. Rufus grunted and handed a third object up.

  “Caravan flag.”

  Tolby nodded. “That will identify the cargo and crew.” He wrapped it about the sleeve and amulet and tucked it into his pipe pocket, switching the pipe to a less secure spot. “My thanks to you, Rufus, even though it is bad news you carry.”

  Rufus peered up at Tolby. “I stay. Find kits for Spice and Little Flower.”

  “You do that. I’ll tell her.”

  Dayne stopped Tolb
y from brushing past him. “Stay the night,” he counseled. “We all need the rest.”

  Tolby’s mouth thinned. Then he gave an abrupt nod. “A’right, lad. There’s some sense in it. But I’ll be off with the first light.” He pushed away then and went to the far edge of the firelight in the fading day, and sat down near the hobbled horses, his shoulders bowed, his chin dropped to his chest. Dayne decided it would be best to leave him alone, at least for a while.

  Chapter

  Forty-Four

  THEY CAMPED UPWIND of the massacred trade caravan and little met their eyes now. White bones lay bleaching in the air amongst shreds of clothes, beasts of burden with little left to their carcasses but their heads and hooves, and the skeletons of the carts and wagons they’d been pulling. Lara folded up, the strain on her face emphasized by the pale bruises under each eye, their search for the children fruitless but word sent from Calcort directing them to this tragedy.

  “No evidence to find.”

  “We were not meant to, certainly. Rufus told us true. I trust his word and Tolby’s on what happened here.” Bistane threw one leg over the top of the saddle and sat, off-balance, surveying the area behind her.

  “If they’d stayed by the river, they might have survived.”

  “Nonsense. If not ambushed here, they would have been taken somewhere before they crossed the border into Galdarkan lands. Just because they eschewed the river here, and had to rely on their own water sources, did not lead to their downfall. They were sent into a trap and meant to do exactly what happened: ride into it and get cut down.”

  “For grain that could be bought at a fair market price.”

  “If a domain is penniless, with credit tight, no price is fair enough. If there’s any blame to fall on this, it falls on my shoulders.” Bistane shook his head. “I failed to realize how desperate the ild Fallyn had gotten. If I had . . .”

  “You’d have gone to war against them.”

  “Yes.” His teeth flashed white at that. “I’d have brought our old enemy low if I’d caught but a whiff of their desperate scent.”

  “You were busy at the time.”

  “Never should have been so busy I did not see them weaken! I had thought the First Home was facing an ordinary uptick in bandits, common after any warfare, and never thought to investigate deeper. No, this is my fault, and I will enjoy picking apart the ild Fallyn who did this.” His gaze swept the killing ground again. “Although without old Rufus coming across this fresh, we would have had no inkling of what happened here.” He dismounted and tied the reins loosely, setting his horse free to graze.

  “There is that.” Lara unhooked her own canteen and took a hearty gulp. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked at it as she lowered it, the scarred stub of that missing finger. “Old Sinok used to say that all rivers flowed into the Andredia. I believed him when I was small, riding at his knee, and even more, he believed it himself. He thought by our sacred pact with the Andredia, he could influence this part of the continent, any part of it which might be touched by the merest drop of the river water. If he’d been right, I should be able to go to any river and ask for word of the children, and receive an answer. Get a testimony as to the ambush here.”

  Bistane’s horse moved restively nearby, cropping with anger as if unhappy with the browning grass dried by the summer heat, and stamped as he moved across the small meadow. Both turned to look at him, checking their surroundings and other mounts, before looking back at each other. Lara scrubbed a wetted scarf over her face, feeling the sun and grit in her skin. Her legs felt knotted and chapped from the hard riding, and a kink had settled in the right side of her neck, stubbornly refusing to ease. She spread the scarf over the ground to let it dry, grubby though it was.

  “But your faith and his was wrong?”

  “Yes. It’s close, the Andredia is a great river that runs mostly underground throughout these western lands before emerging from the mountains and into the valley of Larandaril, but it’s not the only great vein of water. If it were . . .” Her voice trailed off as she looked outward, seeing without seeing.

  “What would you do?”

  “I would call on the blood and flesh we gave her to seek out my heirs and return them.”

  He looked at her hand, the four-fingered one as she rubbed the scar unconsciously, unknowing that she even worried at it as she talked. “What is this pact, exactly?”

  The corner of her mouth drew tight. “We don’t talk of it.”

  “Not even with the consorts and heirs who inherit the consequences of it? I want to know what awaits me and mine.”

  “You have a point.”

  “I do.”

  “Sinok was the second generation of our family, but you know that.”

  He bowed his head even though she still did not look directly at him, seeing him only from the corner of her eye.

  “He was born when the Anderieons had conquered a large portion of these lands for themselves. As he used to tell me, he was born early and a sickly babe and it looked as if Kethan would not have an heir, despite his prowess as a Warrior King and his subjugation of Kernans, Dwellers, Galdarkans, and Vaelinars alike. But he forgot one important aspect of this world, of Kerith.” She stopped rubbing the scar for her missing digit. “He forgot that the peoples of Kerith had Gods, just as the Vaelinars had had them.”

  “Sleeping Gods.”

  “Not all of them.”

  “Oh?” Bistane leaned close. “This was a tale I’ve never heard from any of the first, not even my own preternaturally long-lived father. The Gods of Kerith seldom manifested themselves.”

  She inhaled deeply on the threshold of imparting truth which her family had kept silent for centuries. He could sense her hesitation.

  He fell quiet then as if afraid of interrupting her confession. “I don’t think Sinok even wrote this in the Book of All Truth he submitted to the library. He was like that his entire life, keeping the foundation of our line and our secrets to himself. But, then, they were all like that. I have a feeling that the powers and Talents we are born into were changed by Kerith. Made stronger. Made different. We did not share our knowledge with one another.” She paused for quite a while. The meadow had its own serenity, broken only by the occasional birdsong or whirring of wings or the cropping of the horses.

  “He had his own secrets to keep close, the truth of the rape of his daughter and my birth out of incest, of his disinheritance of Jeredon as a grandson because he found my mother and her husband at the time too weak for the dynasty he intended to establish. He kept my Talents secret. His alliances secret.” She laughed without humor. “A Vaelinar to the core.”

  She lifted her hand, palm upward as if she might hold something. “As a sickly babe, Sinok had little value to Kethan, but that Warrior King knew that he was unlikely to find a different heir. We have never been prolific in our families. The explosive entry of our people into this world had awakened a singular God, a God of diverse and yet devastating power, the Goddess who held the River Andredia.” Lara shifted her weight on the hard ground. “Kerith Gods are elementals, the bones of the world, as it were. He decided to make a pact with this God for a guarantee of succession, with a sacrifice of blood and flesh which he thought would appeal to this primal force. Kethan offered the life of his son Sinok for the promise of Larandaril and a ruling heir.”

  That startled Bistane. “Sinok was not the firstborn?”

  “Oh, but he was. The God of Kerith returned the child to health, with the further pledge that Larandaril be kept sacred, that the peoples of Kerith would benefit just as much from its bounty as the Vaelinars who held it, and that the waters of Andredia would hold the throne of this Kerith God, and be worshipped as such.” She gave Bistane a sidelong look as he raised an eyebrow, absorbing this.

  “You protect a Kerith God?”

  “I do. We did, for centuries, u
ntil Quendius seriously jeopardized that God with his weapons forges, poisoning the mountains with his corruptions and the font had to be cleansed and the pact reaffirmed. Again, flesh and blood.” She lifted her maimed hand into the air and dropped it. “My grandfather was never a particularly religious man, even sworn to a God, but I feel the burden differently.” Her mouth twisted again. “Rivergrace has her own pact with a minor Goddess of the Kerith waters, it seems, the spirit of the Silverwing, but the presence which imbues the Andredia is the primary force in all her glory. I would call on her if I could, but what Daravan and Tressandre have done—and I haven’t rectified—may have cost me my honor and my word.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “No.” Lara looked to her hand again. “The Andredia might just feel that the sacrifice of Evarton and Merri is . . . apt. I’m afraid to ask. I don’t think I can bear the answer.”

  “You’ve been to the river.”

  “Yes. To make sure it is cleansed of the war I waged on its banks. I haven’t tried to communicate with Her.”

  “Then every day compounds your guilt, Lara.”

  “I know.” Her hand curled on her trouser knee.

  “From word sent me by Tolby, the Gods of Kerith are getting to their feet, shaking themselves, and are angry. I wouldn’t wait long before you reconcile with Andredia.”

  Her voice thinned. “I know.” She stood, gathering up her horse’s reins. “We’ve found nothing out here. No trace of them. Not found by us or any of the bounty trackers eager for a purse of gems or even by Dayne who was closest on the trail behind them.”

  “Then we should return home.”

  “And give up?” Her attention snapped to Bistane.

  “No. We return and force Tressandre’s hand.”

  “And how might we do that?”

  “Send every last one of those Returnists still squatting on the Andredia back to her doorstep, send them running. You’re not finished cleansing the banks of your river.”