“I’m not sure I like being famous anymore. Bring on the pig-king,” said Motega.
Percival took them to Mareth, who was sitting on a stone bench, a book in hand, near the entrance to the palace gardens. To Motega, he had the look of a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. The crunch of the gravel underfoot gave their approach away and he closed up the book and put it down beside him, eager for the distraction.
“Plenty of time to relax, eh, Lord Protector?” said Florian, by way of greeting.
Mareth forced a smile but Motega sensed he lacked the joy he had when they had first met in the summer. Now, four moons later, the new Lord Protector looked tired, or concerned, or both.
“A few minutes of peace, though I’m not sure this is the most relaxing book. Thank you, Percival. That will be all.”
Mareth stood and beckoned for the three of them to follow as he set off into the garden, the leather-bound book tucked under his arm. No one spoke for a few minutes as they passed beds of purple and yellow flowers, Motega’s mind anxious to find out why they had been summoned. His thoughts raced as to what might be the reason as they passed through an archway of vines, and into an area of the grounds that had been made to resemble a wild meadow, though its manicured design lacked the beauty of nature.
Mareth stopped. “Thank you for coming,” he said.
“What’s going on, Mareth?” asked Motega, concerned.
“I need to ask a favor, but I want it to be just between us.” Mareth stood still, his hands clasped behind his back, but Motega could see the muscles in his shoulders and arms clenched tight as if they wanted to be in motion. “I want to meet with the Mother of the Twilight Exiles.”
“Sharavin?” said Trypp. “Why?”
“Something Neenahwi said before she left.” He paused, questioning how much he should reveal. “That I should have back up plans.”
“What does that mean?” asked Motega. His sister had not gone into any details on the conversations she’d had with the Lord Protector. He also had not previously had a mind to ask. Knowledge meant responsibility and getting dragged into things that he generally wished to avoid. But now he couldn’t help himself,
“I’m not sure,” said the former bard, smacking the book with the flat of his hand in frustration. Motega thought that sounded like Neenahwi— instructions but don’t ask what the fuck she means. “But I’m worried. That thing you saw in Redpool. What if there are more of them? What if they are already here in the palace? This is not helping either.” He waved the book in the air. “Hoskin’s journal. Pyrfew traitors were already in the privy council!”
Motega looked at his friends. This was news to all of them, though it was hardly like they had access to the palace previously. “Who do you trust?”
“That’s it. I don’t know. It could all be fine. But I feel like I can only rely on those of you who were with me in the election.” Mareth pinched the bridge of his nose as he considered his words carefully. “Grey has brought on new people and I don’t know them. I don’t want her passing on information that gets into the wrong hands.”
Motega nodded firmly, hopefully passing on his shared concern. The bard looked worried and it was difficult for Motega not to want to help. That was the kind of feeling that worried Trypp. “What do you want with Sharavin? We’re going to have to tell her something. Something to convince her it’s not just a trap.”
“I need her ears on the streets. But just for me. For us.” Mareth used his eyebrows to emphasis the ‘us’. “It’s the spymaster in particular I’m not sure I can trust. All you have to do is tell her there is a business opportunity where she can fulfill both her patriotic duty and get very rich.”
“That will at least get her interested,” said Trypp, rubbing his smooth chin as he considered what to do. “I’ll take her the offer. I can be…extra convincing. In private.”
“Thank you,” said Mareth. “That’s at least one concern off my shoulders for now.”
Florian stepped alongside the Lord Protector and flung a comforting arm around Mareth’s shoulders. “Don’t worry! It will be fine. I know what you need. You need a beer. Let’s go and see what the brew master has on tap.”
Mareth puffed out his cheeks and smiled. Trypp nodded his agreement. Motega could go for a drink himself after leaving his last one half-finished. But a tiny part of him wondered at the wisdom of reintroducing afternoon drinking to relieve the troubles of a man who, not so long ago, would have counted ale and whiskey as his two best friends.
The rain came down in stair rods from the steel grey sky, lashing against his bare skin. The water streamed down his body in ice-cold torrents, his trousers becoming soaking wet in seconds. Around him was the familiar circle of stamped down vegetation, bordered by tall grasses all around.
“Shit,” he muttered to himself.
Motega had just been nicely snuggled up in his warm bed at the Royal Oak, looking forward to a good night’s sleep, and now he had to visit with family. And the weather was lousy. Typical.
The grasses parted as a lone wolf strode into the circle to face Motega, perched on his rock made slippery from the downpour. The wolf transmogrified into the form of a tall, strong man, dressed in trousers of animal hide like those Motega wore now, his skin tattooed with whorls and images.
“Hello, grandfather,” said Motega tentatively. Where were his other ancestors? In particular, his father. He wouldn’t admit as much to anyone else, but he found this man a little intimidating.
“Ho, Motega.” His father’s grandfather stood in front of him, arms crossed, surveying him as if he were a child who had been up to no good. Motega supposed that was probably true.
“Do you have wisdom to share with me, Chief Elkin?” he asked, following tradition.
Elkin narrowed his eyes, and Motega braced himself for the worst, but then his great-grandfather relaxed, the barest of grins creasing his cheeks. “I am happy, son of my grandson. You have spilled the blood of our enemies at last. Do you finally do something to avenge your people?”
Motega swept the running rain off his forehead and away from his eyes, breathing a sigh of relief that he was not in trouble. “My friends and I, we killed a few. Yes. Neenahwi too, and she is trying to determine what the enemy plans.” He shrugged. “I’m not sure what we have to do now, though. We were just discussing if this is really…” Motega tailed off as he realized what he was about to say.
The scowl returned to Elkin’s face. “Spit it out, boy.”
Bollocks. He supposed it wasn’t a good idea to lie to your dead ancestors, so he girded himself and spat. “We were just wondering if we should get a less dangerous job. There was a big eagle, and a shape-shifting monster, and Florian got hurt…” He was babbling, now, truly the cornered child who was trying to explain what had seemed like a good decision with his friends.
His grandfather loomed forward into Motega’s face, a clenched fist held up. “What? You’re going to run away and hide?” Motega leaned backwards, upsetting his balance on the treacherous rock and he found himself on his back. “Coward,” snarled Elkin.
“I’m not a coward,” he called back indignantly. “But I’ve got my friends to think of—”
“You’ve got your people to think of!” Elkin called back. “They’re no friends if they won’t stand with you.” His grandfather stood once more and began to pace in a circle. “You’re not even the chief. Why do I never see your sister? Did she undergo the Quana?”
Motega pushed himself upright, a little ashamed at his flinching away from his dead relative, and more than a little pissed off at the continued questions of why Neenahwi never visited. It wasn’t like he controlled the dreamworld. Or his sister. Especially his sister.
“She did it. I don’t know why she isn’t here. I’d much pre-fucking-fer it if she was here instead of me.”
Elkin’s back was to Motega, but he heard his breath escape him and he saw his shoulders slump. He was quiet for a moment, before he turned
around. “You did good Motega. Kill those bastards. Keep at it. Things are going to happen, and someone has to stop it. Maybe it has to be you.”
His grandfather backed away, step by step, keeping Motega fixed in his icy glare. “Wait. What things?” he called.
But Elkin turned and walked back into the long grasses, as immutable as the rain that hammered down.
Chapter 12
A Letter From Ioth
He loved these moments. The smell of Petra’s hair as she nestled her body next to his. His breathing matched her own long breaths; perfect synchronicity going in, and out. Colors swirled in his vision from staring up into the dark of their canopied bed, his thoughts continuously trying to drag him thousands of miles away from this moment of peace.
Mareth was tired. But sleep would not come. The inky black of the night often felt like a crushing weight on his chest and forehead. Brandy had helped him sleep in recent nights when Petra stayed with her sister, but he tried not to drink when she was with him. Now, no matter how much he tried to focus on the woman beside him, his concerns rose and entranced him, like a snake enticed from a basket.
“Are you asleep?” he whispered. There was no answer, so he tried again, a little louder.
“Not really,” mumbled Petra.
“It’s Ioth. They’re not sending a delegation.” Some of the tension left his neck and shoulders as he spoke the words out loud—even though he knew the problem wasn’t dealt with, at least it wasn’t just swirling around inside his skull without company. Their other allies around the Sapphire Sea had all sent envoys to meet with him, and though some had proved more useful than others, what he and Grey had been waiting for was a chance to talk to Ioth. They were critical. If only they could be convinced—bribed even—to support Edland and not the Pyrfew fleet, then maybe they would be able to avoid outright war.
Petra made the great effort of rolling over to face him, clearly struggling to shake off the heaviness of sleep like a sodden fur coat. “They’re not coming at all? When did you find out?”
“Today. We received dispatches from our ambassador in the city. We’re going to have to send our own envoy.”
Petra nodded, her eyes only half open. “You’re going to send her, I assume?”
Mareth murmured his agreement. “I can’t think of anyone better. She’ll be able to assess things on the ground; be flexible if needed. And I know she won’t give up.”
“Right. She’ll do a good job.” He could see her eyes starting to close again. Mareth smiled as he watched her start to drift off back to sleep. He was pretty sure he was in love with her. He’d sung tens of thousands of songs in the past about love, about two people’s souls bound together as one, but since meeting her he’d realized he’d never felt that himself. Until now. It was times like these that he never wanted to end, the small moments of the day when it was just the two of them and he could forget this mess that he’d walked into. So he kept on talking.
“I don’t know how they’ll react initially to her being so young, but I know she’ll win them over.”
Petra’s chest raised as she breathed in, and Mareth could see the exact moment when his words finally crept into the recesses of her sleeping mind. “Young?” Petra’s eyes opened wide and she snapped half upright to rest on her elbow. “I know she looks good for her age, but how can anyone call Lady Grey young?”
Oh, no, thought Mareth. We weren’t talking about the same person at all.
“Not Grey. I need her here. I mean, I think you—well, no, I mean I know you could do it too, but…” Mareth was scrambling now. “But I wouldn’t bear to be without you.” He reached for her hand and held it in both of his. “Alana, though. Alana will be good at this.” Mareth nodded in the hope it would help Petra agree with him. He felt a small amount of hidden shame that he actually thought that Alana would be better at the job than her sister, and though he was still relatively new at relationships, he didn’t think it would be a good idea to mention it.
“Alana? You’re sending Alana to Ioth?”
“Yes. I won’t send her alone, of course. I’m thinking that Crews should go with her. And our friends.” He sucked in a deep breath before asking his next question, certain that she would be upset about her sister being chosen instead of her. “What do you think?”
Petra said nothing. Her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed. Mareth couldn’t tell what she was thinking and his mouth wanted to blather and fill the quiet, but his brain took control of the reins and made it clear that he should shut up.
Eventually, she nodded. “Makes sense, I guess.” She paused for a moment, her brow furrowing as she considered the news further. “She’ll be gone for a long time though. I’m going to miss her.”
What an idiot. He hadn’t even given a thought to how Petra would miss her younger sister. He doubted they’d ever had a day in their lives when they hadn’t been together.
“Two moons, maybe three. I’m sorry, Petra. I don’t know who else to rely on.”
“It’s fine.” She smiled. “It will be good for her.” Petra paused again for a moment before continuing, her smile turning decidedly mischievous. “You’re going to have to do without me too. At least for a little while. I can’t hold off going to visit the Bard College for much longer. They really want guild status now that we’re changing things around.”
He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips, thankful that she agreed with his choice. Mareth valued her opinion more than anyone else, and if anyone knew what Alana was capable of it was her sister. “I don’t believe you requested to go on a trip though…” Mareth watched as a look of anger shot across Petra’s face. “Joke! Joke!” he backtracked quickly and the storm subsided. “I meant to say, whatever will I do without you for a whole week?”
“Sleep, hopefully!” She laughed. “And pray that I don’t meet a younger, more dashing bard.”
“Hah! As if that is possible.” He tried not to imagine what the younger version of him would be plotting if he was in the Bard College when Petra arrived.
She poked him in the ribs with a slender finger, earning an exclamation of feigned pain. “You deserved that,” she said. “Thank you for worrying about what I would say, but really, I don’t mind.” She could read him like a book. “Have you told her yet?”
“No. I was going to speak to Alana tomorrow.”
“Not Alana. She’s going to be over the moon. Oh, she’ll be terrified too, but she’s going to be excited. She’s always wanted to see the world. No, I meant have you told Lady Grey yet?”
“Not yet…” This was the other thing on his mind. “I was going to bring it up in the privy council meeting.”
“I see. You want there to be others present, so she won’t disagree with you.” He nodded slowly; she had seen through his cunning plan in an instant. Petra chuckled and pulled him into an embrace. “Mareth, you’re such a coward.”
When it came to the women in his life—Petra, Alana, Grey, Neenahwi—he really couldn’t agree more
“Next order of business?” prompted Grey once Admiral Crews had finished with his report. Still no strategy had been developed for how to handle the turtle ships; Mareth pinched the inside of his leg under the table to stay calm. It wouldn’t do to get upset about the lack of progress. Not when there were other important matters to discuss. Maybe even a way to solve that particular problem at the source.
“Yes,” said Mareth. “The Ioth delegation we have been waiting on.” He paused and scanned the faces of the privy council members, measuring the receptivity of his audience. He took note that Alana had shuffled her chair to the table once more, squeezed in between Uthridge and Grimes. She leaned in expectantly. Petra remained sitting by the back wall; as he looked at her, she flashed him a smile that gave him the confidence to continue. “They’re not coming. What was the exact message again, please, Chancellor?”
Her head bowed as she read from a folded piece of paper. “They said, ‘Congratulations Lord Bollingsmead on your new sta
tus at the head of a people’s uprising. The fair city state of Ioth, City of Lights, Home of Arloth’ blah, blah, more titles, ‘hopes to continue our friendship in the future and to work together to ensure a safe Sapphire Sea for all. As Wintertide fast approaches, I invite you to join our celebrations. If you are unable to travel then I do hope that our two great nations will be able to talk in the spring. Sincerely, Ambrosi Menapace, Speaker of the Assembly.” Grey looked up to meet Mareth’s attention. “Probably, the nicest fuck you we’ll get all year.”
“What are we going to do now?” asked Uthridge, directing the question at him. “They have to stop building and supplying Pyrfew ships. Do we blockade the city?”
“No.” Mareth raised his hand to silence any further discussion. “Not yet. I hope it doesn’t come to that kind of open hostility, and who knows how many of our ships would even make it there when we still have no plan of action against those bloody fire ships.” He shot the Admiral the kind of look he once reserved for that special kind of arsehole who knocked into his tavern table and spilled his drink.
“And the plan instead is?” asked Crews, choosing to ignore the puddle of beer.
“We send someone there,” said Alana, slapping the table and leaning back in her chair. Occasionally she forgot her observer status and this was one of those times when Mareth couldn’t be happier that she let her excitement get the better of her. “They did invite us.”
“Are you really going to go?” asked Grimes. “We’ll need a bloody armada to keep you safe on that journey.”
“I’m not going. But Alana is right. We do need to send a delegation. Let’s take them up on their invitation.” Mareth smiled for a moment, more for himself than anyone else. “Alana, you will be our ambassador.” Once more he raised his hand to stop the grumbling around the table; Grey and Uthridge looked like they had something to say. “The chancellor cannot leave; I need her here. I will not send soldiers as peace envoys, and nor do I trust anyone outside of this room.”
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