“Did you say anything to her?”
“Annamaya?”
“Rebecca.”
“Just asked what she was doing there. And like that.” Cat didn’t meet Han’s eyes.
“Well?” Han said impatiently. “What did she say?”
“Said she was going to school here.”
“Did you say anything about me?” he asked.
Cat scowled at him. “Why would I say anything about you? You think the whole world’s sniffing your butt?”
Han threw a black look at Dancer, who was grinning.
“I thought maybe she was cheating on you with Corporal Byrne, and that’s why she was spying on him cheating on her,” Cat went on. “She run away before I could ask.”
“Why would she run away?” Han asked. Cat could talk an awful lot without ever telling you what you needed to know.
“How should I know?” She paused, then added reluctantly, “Well. I did have my knife out.”
Han and Dancer looked at each other.
“Your knife?” Dancer said, furrowing his brow.
“Well, I saw her sneaking around, and I didn’t recognize her at first, and I didn’t know what she was up to, and then I kind of forgot I had it out.”
“I can see how that could happen,” Han said dryly.
“I talked to Annamaya about it, and she says her and Corporal Byrne are going to get married. Only not for a long time. Me, I think if you’re going to get married, you might as well get it over with.”
Han cleared his throat. “Do you know where she’s staying? Rebecca, I mean.”
“I don’t know. You might try Grindell Hall. Across the river. That’s where Corporal Byrne stays.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A MEETING
OF EXILES
Raisa found out that there was a downside to having friends—they were always trying to cheer you up when all you wanted to do was feel sorry for yourself.
The weeks after Raisa followed Amon to his rendezvous were a painful blur, and then the end-of-term exams began. Raisa was too busy to mope, and Hallie and Talia were too busy to notice. But as the Gray Wolves finished their exams, it freed up time for moping. And noticing. The end-of-term parties began, which would culminate in the solstice celebration.
Raisa wasn’t sure what Hallie and Talia had told the other Wolves, but conversations often stopped when she came into a room. Each tried to help in his or her own way. Garret offered to share the flask of whiskey he kept under a floorboard, and Mick tried to give her a clanwork saddlebag Raisa had long admired.
Now Raisa was the one who stayed away from Grindell Hall as much as possible. When Amon was in the dormitory she would keep to her room. When they had to be together, she was polite and cooperative and calm.
She wasn’t angry at him, but she couldn’t abide the bleak and guilty expression on his face, as if he wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the words. Or the significant looks exchanged among the others.
She might feel sorry for herself, but she didn’t want to be pitied.
Once, when the others were out, Amon tapped on the door of her room. “Rai,” he said. “I can’t stand this. Come out and talk to me.”
“I can’t right now,” she said, keeping her voice steady and light. “I’m studying.”
“Rai,” he said again, and she knew he was resting his forehead against the door. “Please. You’re my best friend.”
“And you’re mine. But I just can’t do this right now, all right?” A sob somehow lodged in her throat, and she couldn’t speak, so she sat, fists clenched, breathing deeply, until he went away.
Early solstice eve, the common room was filled with talk of plans for the parties that would be going on that evening, culminating in fireworks. Amon, it seemed, would be watching from the Temple close with Annamaya. He puttered about in the next room, pretending not to listen as the others tried to talk Raisa into going out.
“Come with us,” Talia urged. “Pearlie is meeting us over on Bridge Street. We’ll have dinner and stake out a good place to watch the fireworks.”
“You’ve been working like a slave all term,” Hallie added. “I’m leaving for home tomorrow, so it’ll be our only chance to go out together.”
Hallie was the only Gray Wolf who would be traveling home during the solstice break. Although the travel there and back would take longer than the visit, for her it was worth it to spend the holidays with her daughter.
Raisa waited until Talia went to the washroom, then pulled Hallie aside. “Hallie, would you be willing to carry a letter back to the Fells to my mother?” she said quietly. “I’ve got it mostly written, and I can finish it up and put it on your bed to take with you.”
“Well, a’course,” Hallie said. “But how will I find her? Where does she stay?”
“Lord Averill is friends with her,” Raisa said. “If you take it to him, he’ll make sure she gets it. And if there’s an answer, you can carry it back to me.” Raisa paused. “But make sure you put it right into his hands. No one else’s. All right?”
“I got it,” Hallie said, nodding.
“And please don’t mention it to anyone else,” Raisa said. Especially Amon Byrne, she thought.
Hallie shrugged. “If that’s the way you want it. Now, what about dinner? I know you’re not one to go to taverns, but it’s a holiday, after all.”
Raisa shook her head. “Thank you for asking, but I’m going to eat in the dining hall, do some reading, then go to bed early.” She yawned extravagantly. “If I’m still awake at midnight I’ll walk out into the quad and watch from there.”
“We’ll stay, then, and have dinner with you here,” Talia said. “We can keep you company. Maybe you’ll change your mind about the fireworks.”
“No,” Raisa snapped. “I am fine. Please don’t ruin your plans because of me.”
She looked up. Amon stood in the doorway, his gray eyes shadow-dark with pain.
And so they left, with many backward looks, but no more attempts to sway her.
Raisa walked over to the nearly empty dining hall. For once there was plenty of meat, and also spun sugar cakes and solstice cookies, iced to look like little suns. She walked back to Grindell and recopied her letter to Queen Marianna. After leaving it on Hallie’s bed, she spread her books out on the table in the common room and opened A Brief History of Warfare in the Seven Realms. Despite the title, it was eight hundred pages long. Good thing she didn’t have to read the long version.
She’d no doubt have Tourant again the next term for recitation in History of Warfare II. Assuming she managed to pass part one. It seemed impossible that she should fail a subject that she found so fascinating. She wished Master Askell administered the exams instead of Tourant.
Raisa opened her book and soon lost herself in reading. Several of the chapters on the use of magic in warfare referenced Hanalea, who had used a three-pronged approach after the Breaking to fight off pirates, bandits, and invasion from the south. The warrior queen had been an innovator, a risk taker. Her legacy endured to this day.
What kind of legacy would she, Raisa, leave? One of grief and disappointment?
Raisa sat back, rubbing her eyes. The dormitory was as quiet as a tomb. Outside, the temple bells bonged out the hour. Nine o’clock.
Suddenly, she couldn’t bear the notion of sitting alone in her room on this most festive of nights—a night without curfews. We’re welcoming a new year, she thought. A time for new opportunities. Maybe a night to take a chance.
It wouldn’t hurt to get some air, she decided, yanking her cloak from the peg on the wall.
Once out the door, Raisa turned toward the river. She could hear the music from Bridge Street, where the fireworks would begin in a few hours. Would it be so risky to go just this once? She could find Talia and Hallie and raise a glass, at least. It had been so long since she’d seen fireworks. It was a shame not to spend Hallie’s last night with her.
As she walked toward th
e river, she couldn’t shake the twitchy feeling that someone was watching her. But when she turned around, she saw no one. There were lots of people in the streets, more and more as she neared the river.
There were evergreen boughs tied around lampposts and lanterns hung along the streets to guide the light back into the Seven Realms. The temples were brightly illuminated, festooned with glitternet and candles to drive off the dark. Within, the speakers and the temple choirs sang hymns to the Maker and drank from wassail bowls, just like at home. Raisa’s spirits lifted a little.
As she threaded her way through the narrow, stone-paved streets of the old town, gray wolves loped along on either side of her, yipping and whining as if trying to get her attention. She stopped, looked around. Saw nothing. Tried to settle her galloping heart.
Wolves sometimes meant a turning point. Maybe this solstice night signified new opportunities.
Your days of playing games are over, she told herself, trying not to think of Amon. She couldn’t marry—or even be with—Amon Byrne. That path was closed to her. What other path could she take?
She could marry outside of the Fells. Tamron’s Liam Tomlin had made it plain he was interested—but to what purpose she didn’t know. Liam might be the best marriage option from a political standpoint, but she needed more information to know for sure.
It didn’t hurt that Liam was younger and handsomer and more appealing than any other princeling she was likely to be matched with. She didn’t love him, but he was infinitely preferable to Gerard Montaigne, who sent shivers down her back.
She could do as her mother intended and marry Micah Bayar, which would precipitate a cascade of consequences, possibly including war with the clans. But she was stronger than her mother, more obstinate. The magical tethers put in place by the speakers might protect her. A union between the Gray Wolf line and the Wizard Council would be potent. The guard and the army would remain loyal to the queen. Probably.
She could marry clan royalty, as her mother had. That would please the clans and infuriate the Wizard Council. It would reinforce the third leg of Gray Wolf power. Reid Demonai was a possibility, and there were likely candidates at some of the other camps.
Hanalea hadn’t married for love. No one ever heard anything about the consort she’d married after the Breaking. She’d focused on saving her queendom. It was an example to follow.
Raisa was in such a fog of strategizing that she nearly ran smack into a brick wall. She looked around, realizing that the music had faded. She’d strayed into a labyrinth of brick alleys. She turned back the way she’d come, and found someone blocking her way.
“Well, look who’s wandering about alone on solstice eve,” he said. “No one to walk out with on the holiday?”
It was Henri Tourant, staggering drunk and stinking of ale, dressed in his usual garish fashion.
Raisa froze for a long moment, debating strategy. Finally, she nodded at him and said, “Proficient Tourant, happy New Year. May the sun come again.” She tried to brush past him to the street.
But he grabbed her arm, yanked her back toward him, and shoved her up against the wall, his arm pressed against her throat.
“Let me go!” Raisa tried to shout it, but the pressure against her windpipe made it difficult to generate much volume.
The alleyway swam with gray wolves, ruffs bristling at their necks. Their howls reverberated against the walls to either side.
“Perhaps you’d like to walk out with me,” Tourant slurred. “I am — available.”
Raisa pried at his arm with both hands. “Let go, I said.”
“You need to learn to keep your opinions to yourself,” he said. “You got me in trouble with Master Askell, and now I’m not teaching next term.”
“Perhaps,” Raisa gasped, made reckless by fury, “it could be a time for reflection on what a cretin you are.”
It was not the smartest move. Tourant’s arm pressed harder against her throat, as if to cut off the breath that powered those opinions. Her head began to spin.
What was it Amon always said? If someone grabs you in the street, hit hard and fast, because you may not get a second chance.
Bracing herself against the brick, she brought her boot heel down with all her weight on one of Tourant’s ridiculous velvet slippers. Bones cracked.
He howled in pain, releasing his hold enough so that she could drag in a breath. Then he slammed her head against the wall. She saw stars.
“I despise northern women,” he said, giving her a shake. “You’re harlots and whores, all of you. I’m going to show you how we treat harlots in the south.”
And he smashed his face against hers in a drunken kiss, using his body to hold her upright against the wall.
He pressed his hands to either side of her face, holding it steady. She gripped the pinky finger on his right hand and snapped it back, breaking it. He screeched and staggered backward, cradling his injured hand, and she slammed her foot into his kneecap. Now he crumpled to the pavers, rolling back and forth and baying in pain.
Raisa knew she was lucky that drink had slowed Tourant’s reactions; she knew she should just run away, but she couldn’t help herself. All the anger and frustration of the past weeks came due. She drew her knife and pressed it into Tourant’s throat.
“When they told you about northern women, did they mention that they carry knives?” she said.
Tourant shook his head. Carefully. “No,” he whispered.
“You touch me again, you arrogant Ardenine swine, and I swear on the blood of Hanalea the warrior, I will geld you. Do you understand?”
Tourant nodded violently, sweat beading on his forehead. Raisa backed away from him, turned, and ran down the alley toward the street.
Someone was standing in the entry of the alleyway, a tall figure silhouetted against the streetlights. Raisa’s heart sank. Was this one of Tourant’s Ardenine cronies, come to pitch in?
“Get out of my way,” she warned, striding forward, “or you’ll get the same treatment as him.”
“Including the gelding?” he said in Fellsian. “I’ve heard of thieves dropping a glove, but that’s severe.”
Fear turned to confusion. He was Fellsian. Not Ardenine. “Dropping a glove?”
He made a chopping motion at his wrist. “The queen’s peculiar justice. Makes it hard for a thief to earn a living any other way.”
Recognition shivered over her. She squinted into the darkness. “Who are you?”
“Me, I’d never cross a northern girlie. I know all about the knives.” His voice was familiar, but his features were still hidden in shadow. “I meant to yank that bacon-faced dirtback off of you, Rebecca, but I guess you didn’t need my help.”
Her steps slowed to a stop while her heart accelerated to a pounding cadence. “Alister?” she whispered. And then, louder, “Alister, is that you?”
“Come out into the high street and see.” He took two steps back so the light from the lamps washed over his features.
She walked forward, out of the alley, raised her head, and looked into a pair of blue eyes she thought she’d never see again. Her heart swelled almost to bursting, and she struggled to breathe, to force air past the lump in her throat.
“Blessed Hanalea, it is you,” she whispered, her eyes stinging with tears too sudden to prevent.
“Hello, Rebecca,” Cuffs Alister said, then rushed to add, “Hey, now. Don’t look so peaked. I an’t a spook, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“But I heard you were dead,” Raisa said, almost accusingly. “They found your bloody clothes on the riverbank.”
Cuffs shrugged. “I needed to get the bluejackets off my back. So I faked it.” He smiled, an oddly painful smile. “Guess it worked.”
Resurrection seemed to suit him. He was dressed more finely than she remembered. Not extravagantly, but his clothes looked new, of good-quality fabric. They fit him well, revealing a tall, spare frame and broad shoulders under a wool cloak.
Last time
Raisa had seen him, his hair had been shaggy, dyed a dirty brown, and he’d been wearing clan garb. Now his hair had been recently cut. It glittered like spun gold under the streetlights. It was like one of those old romances where the pauper swaps out his rags and becomes a prince.
His face was different, too. Last she’d seen him, he’d been bruised and battered from the beating the Queen’s Guard had given him. Now she saw he had high cheekbones and a long straight nose with a little bump on it, as though it had been broken. There were shadows carved into his features that hadn’t been there before, a history and an expectation of pain.
“What are you doing here?” Raisa asked, her bubbling questions bursting into speech.
“I go to school here. Same as you.” Cuffs looked over her shoulder, into the alley. “Let’s slide off now, before your friend finds his courage again.” He paused, tilting his head. “Or do you want to call the provosts?”
He probably wasn’t in the habit of calling on the law.
Raisa imagined that messy scene, the crowd it would draw, and shook her head.
“Then let’s go.” He directed her left, toward the river, with a hand between her shoulder blades. There was a buzz to his touch, a heat and a tingle, almost like —
“Would you like to walk up to Bridge Street?” he asked. “We could tip a cider and talk.”
Raisa practically skidded to a halt. Cuffs looked down at her as if worried he’d overstepped. “I mean, unless you got other plans. It’s just — I wanted to talk to you.”
“I’d rather not go to Bridge Street,” Raisa said. “After all that’s happened, I don’t want to be out among people.”
“Well, then,” he said, scraping his fingers through his hair. “I could walk you back to Grindell.”
Alarm bells rang out in her head. “How do you know where I live?” she demanded.
“Well, I — ah — followed you from there to here,” he said.
“You were following me?”
He raised both hands, looking around the crowded street as if worried about being overheard. “I’ll explain. When we talk.”
Raisa imagined going back to her dormitory and the prying eyes of the Gray Wolves. Not to mention the possibility of encountering Amon Byrne.
Exiled Queen, The Page 32
