T
HE HAIR BALL
proved less hard to spit out than Tristan had feared, and its gracious reception did much to soothe his wounded pride.
“I’m sorry too, Tris,” said Rosalie into his chest. He didn’t even remember her getting up from the lawn swing she had been perched on, but she must have because here she was in his arms. Maybe they were pulled together like magnets. “I said things I shouldn’t have, that I had no right to.”
“Hey, that’s okay.” Tristan pulled her tighter and nuzzled into
her hair, marveling at his brother’s perception. He had never thought of Dominic as especially brilliant, if the truth be known. More in the reliable-but-dull category. He would have to rethink that opinion now.
T
RISTAN WAS CLOSETED
with General Fortin, reviewing the list of delegates for the upcoming defense talks and the proposals they would put forward.
“I think it’s good, after all, that we are meeting in La Maronne,” he offered. “As the entry point for the Greffaires, the Maronnais have the most at stake. It makes sense that they should host it.”
Fortin nodded agreement. “There is one last question I wished to discuss with you, Sire. Our first meeting—the one Prince Dominic attended—proved somewhat chaotic.”
“Yes, that was Dominic’s assessment too.”
“It is new to us, this business of planning among four different nations,” continued Fortin, “four heads of state and four generals, all of them used to taking the lead and dominating in a discussion.”
“All of them with their contingent of aides and courtiers, each one bent on making his mark,” added Tristan dryly.
“Precisely.”
“Is there a solution?”
“I was going to suggest we propose appointing a director of the talks. The director’s role is not to put forward his own opinion, but to keep the discussion orderly. People would require the acknowledgment of the director to speak, and he would also be responsible for summarizing any conclusions and confirming the agreement of all parties.”
“Big job,” said Tristan. “You know what the difficulty is?”
“Sire?”
“It would have to be a prominent, respected person. If things get heated, he may have to refuse or even reprimand the highest-ranking personages in the Krylian Basin. Right?”
“Yes, that’s true,” agreed Fortin.
“But none of the important people there will wish to play that role because it will limit their ability to promote their own viewpoint.”
They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Dominic stuck his head in.
“Can I interrupt?”
“Of course,” said Tristan. “What’s up?”
Dominic entered the room and waved a roll of parchment at them.
“This just arrived from Blanchette. You won’t believe it.”
C
ART
traffic was sparse along the little track that meandered along the northern edge of La Maronne, but just as Féolan had concluded that he would have to carry Gabrielle all the way to the Skyway Outpost, a herd of sheep made their way down the path, followed by a weather-beaten shepherd pulling a hand cart piled with clothing, blankets and supplies.
There was no need to impress the man with Gabrielle’s lineage. He took one look at Gabrielle (“so fair, wan and wounded,” Féolan would joke, later), scratched at his ample beard as if deep in thought and began unpacking his wagon. Most items were tied into a blanket and slung over his back. Féolan and Derkh tucked what they could into their packs. With a grand gesture, their new friend motioned Gabrielle to the empty, and rather rickety-looking, hand cart.
“Will it do, Gabrielle?” asked Féolan, worried. “I think it’s only a few more miles, but that thing will be bumpy beyond belief, and there isn’t room to lie down.”
“They’re all bumpy beyond belief,” said Gabrielle. “Big or small. I wonder, though, if we might be able to rig up a little backrest. It would help if I had something to lean against.”
A pack filled with cloaks and blankets was tucked behind her, and she was soon being hauled down the road, legs dangling behind, surrounded by milling sheep.
It was the slowest part of the journey for Féolan. He could see Gabrielle tire from the effort of bracing herself against the pitch of the little cart, see her face tighten in pain with every rattle. He would rather have carried her, but after three hours of rocky downhill track he couldn’t manage much more.
Abruptly the wagon stopped, and with a yell the shepherd bolted off the track after a group of straying sheep. Féolan crouched in front of Gabrielle’s knees and looked up into her face. “How are you doing?” he asked.
“Let’s just say it’s not
seskeesh
travel,” said Gabrielle. “I’ll be bloody glad to get off this thing. But I’ll last.”
Their friend was stumping back, brandishing his hat behind four reluctant sheep. Waving off Derkh’s offer to take a turn, he hoisted up the handles of the cart and offered them a wide, gap-toothed smile. “Stupid beasts,” he said. And then, “Goin’ to the soldiers’ camp?” They were the first—and only—words he spoke to them.
Squinting into the late-afternoon sun, they rattled down the road.
T
HE SENTRY WHO
intercepted them swept his eyes over the trio, noting the green and yellow mottles of Derkh’s fading bruises and Gabrielle’s exhausted slump, and raised a hand to forestall Féolan’s explanations.
“You’d be the Elf-fellow, Féolan, and this the king’s daughter of Verdeau,” he surmised, in the clipped tones of Marronaise Krylaise. “And you,” he continued, pointing a thick finger at Derkh, “would be the lad they were looking for.” He nodded with satisfaction at the three stunned faces. “Only thing I don’t get is, who’s this one?” he asked, gesturing at the shepherd.
“Mutton delivery, ten head, to the Chief Provisioner,” the man
replied, and then looked indignant at the ensuing laughter.
“That’s the biggest herd of ten I ever saw,” remarked the sentry.
Féolan stepped in. “This man very kindly provided transport to the Lady Gabrielle, and we owe him a great debt of gratitude.” The shepherd, who had previously waved away their offer of payment as imperiously as he had waved Derkh away from the cart, puffed with pleasure.
“How did you know about us?” Féolan asked, as the sentry escorted them to the camp.
“A friend of yours was here, looking for you,” the man replied. “Says you was late returning and asked us to watch. He’s up the mountain right now, searching, but he’ll be back, I warrant.”
Living conditions in the outpost were rough, but a vast improvement to sleeping on rock and cooking over a fire. Though the outpost men were still housed in tents, a row of wooden cabins was being built to provide year-round shelter. In just minutes, mattresses were moved into the most finished of these, a set of real sheets proudly produced by the on-site Commander, and Gabrielle was soon comfortably tucked in. She was asleep almost instantly and did not rouse until morning.
“W
AKE UP, SLEEPYHEAD
. You’ve missed dinner and are very close to missing breakfast. That’s no way to build up your strength.” Gabrielle’s eyes fluttered open. She knew this voice, knew she would turn her head to find warm brown eyes, golden hair, a fair Elvish face.
“Danaïs. You seem determined always to see me at my worst.” In the short time of their friendship, Danaïs had seen Gabrielle heartbroken, exhausted and filthy beyond belief.
He laughed, the sound a merry soft cascade. “You were much worse than this just days ago, or so I am told.”
“True, I’m afraid.” She stretched experimentally. “I am hungry, though. Do you think...?”
“I do not think. I am certain. Féolan and Derkh are vying even now to see who can haul back the largest, most sumptuous breakfast for you. You will have to settle for filling rather than sumptuous, though. It’s soldier fare here, plain and simple.”
Féolan and Derkh shouldered in, bearing great trays of food, and as they ate Danaïs took the opportunity to fill them in on his part of the story. “When you did not return in almost two weeks, I decided to look for you. And it seemed smarter by then to start at the end of your journey, so I rode straight here.”
“You could search these mountains for three months and never find anyone,” remarked Féolan.
“Yes, but I did not have three months, so it is well you found yourselves,” retorted Danaïs. “The First Ambassador may have forgotten, but his Council has not, that the next joint defense talks with the Humans take place in less than a week.” Féolan’s expression was comically transparent. “You
had
forgotten, I see. Perhaps you have forgotten also that it is to be held quite close to here, in Gaudette. So I was charged, in the unfortunate event that you were not found, to take your place as Ambassador and Translator for the Elvish Defense Council.” He chewed for a bit, considering.
“It’s rather a pity you showed up, now I think about it. I was looking forward to rubbing shoulders with the Great.”
Under the laughter, Danaïs’s gentle gaze took in the way Féolan’s eyes kept returning to Gabrielle, checking, he knew, for signs of fever, fatigue, pain.
“Derkh,” he said. “Let’s you and me clear away this mighty mess
and leave these two in peace a while. We can go to my tent or find a rock in the sun, and you can satisfy my curiosity there.”
T
ELLING DANAÏS WHAT
had happened to them all, from beginning to end, was probably the longest Derkh had ever talked in his life.
He had been worried that Danaïs would, in his light-hearted way, make a joke of his tale. But his fears were unfounded. To his relief, the Elf allowed Derkh to tell the story in his own way, waiting patiently when he groped to find a Krylaise word or lapsed into Greffaire, interrupting only to clarify when he didn’t understand. It was another thing Derkh was learning from his new friends: that qualities he had been raised to see as contradictory could co-exist. A person could be both serious and silly, or like the
seskeesh
, powerful and gentle. First he told the facts, unembellished with his own opinions or feelings, the way he had been taught to report on military action. And then, encouraged somehow by Danaïs’s silent attentiveness, he surprised himself by telling more.
“Maybe the real reason I left was because I couldn’t believe that anyone here could really be my friend. It didn’t seem to matter what they did; I couldn’t believe in it. And then Gabrielle nearly died trying to save me, and Féolan never said one word of blame. I don’t know what I would have done if she had died. But she lived, and I know now that all the shame and regret I have for what happened will not give her any satisfaction, only more pain. I think, if I want to repay this debt, the only way is to try to give back to her what she has given me all along. To be her friend.” Derkh swallowed, struggling against his own embarrassment, and finally lifted his dark eyes to meet Danaïs’s.
The Elf contemplated him in silence, and Derkh kept his head up and allowed the scrutiny. At last Danaïs smiled and shook his head gently, and Derkh’s own grin of relief was wide enough to hurt his bruised cheeks. He felt light, like he’d laid down a heavy pack that had bent him to the ground.
“I foretold, if you remember, a growth spurt for you,” said Danaïs. Derkh didn’t follow at first. “At Gabrielle’s dinner,” prompted Danaïs. “When you were piling your plate to the sky.”
“Oh, I remember now,” said Derkh. The night he almost changed his mind, that was. The night he almost believed.
“I was right, was I not? You have grown tall indeed. Tall in here.” He reached over and laid a hand over Derkh’s heart. It was a touch Derkh might have flinched away from not long ago. Now he accepted it, seeing in his mind’s eye the way the
seskeesh
had cradled Gabrielle’s face in its great hand, the dignity and tenderness of the gesture.
“I would be proud, Derkh, if you would consider yourself my friend also,” said Danaïs. “As I am yours.”
L
ABARQUE
had been jailed, but his poison was not yet drawn. His fury at being kept in confinement pending trial—to be held at some undisclosed time when the Judge, the Civil Council, the Plaintiff and the Crown could all be conveniently convened—fed the madness that had already taken hold within him. Night after night the fever in his mind flamed brighter, burning away sleep and pushing him toward a single obsession: revenge.
Disgraced though he was, he still held more than a few men in his grip. He had been a collector of guilty secrets for many years, and he was a master at implicating his partners and hired hands in his own shady actions. It was surprising, he had found, what lengths men would take to protect even the pettiest of their shames.
And he still had his wealth. A whisper into the ear of the shabbiest of the jail workers—a bent, arthritic cleaner who mopped down the hallways and guard room, but not his cell, every night—was all it took to have a note delivered. “What can be the harm of a simple note to a friend?” he had urged. “A note to reassure them in their worry, and beg their remembrance.” And he had named a sum to be paid on delivery; a sum that made the credulous simpleton’s eyes go round with astonishment and then narrow with greed.
For the day would come, and soon, when LaBarque would be transferred. The building where he was held now was a civil building with many uses, from housing property records to hearing criminal charges. It was not designed to keep long-term prisoners; rather it had a handful of cells for temporary detainment, while the severity of a case was determined. In the years when raiders came, it sometimes held pirates. Most often, the jail block housed only petty thieves or drunken brawlers.
And since his so-called “trial”—LaBarque sneered the word in mockery every time it sounded in his head—would not, apparently, take place for some time, he would undoubtedly be moved to the Regional Prison, far inland from the heavily settled Blanchette coast. That move would provide the opportunity he needed. LaBarque could not claim any ties of friendship, but he could still buy loyalty. Or threaten it.
“E
SCAPED?!
F
OR THE
love of—” Rosalie nearly choked on her own frustration and outrage. “Will we never be free of the man?” Unable to contain herself, she strode to the door and with a cry of anger slammed it shut. Then, feeling foolish at the childish outburst, she opened it again. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against its cool wooden edge.