“Sold and done.” Tolby stuck his hand out. “I am Tolby Farbranch, Master Oxfort. Met you before, but I doubt you’d remember me. Good meeting you again.”
“Farbranch, mmm?” Bregan shook his hand with little strength in his right one, although Tolby marked it as considerably better than the last time he’d shaken Bregan’s hand. That had been years ago at his and Lily’s wedding, at which the Oxforts made a brief appearance, as thanks for his service as a caravan guard. Bregan had been rolling in misery for his troubles then, that and in strong drink. He’d heard that Bregan had been roughly sobered up, but how, and why, the rumor wind had not said. The Oxforts had come with a present. They’d left a pot and lid for the wedding, to become one of Lily’s treasures, and one of the few that survived the burnout. Oxfort cleared his throat as if bringing a thought to mind. “You’ve a reputation for good cider.”
“Thank you, sir. I do, indeed, and hope it follows me here.”
“Can’t be the same apples, though. You’re far from the Silverwing.” Oxfort appraised him shrewdly. Tolby felt a faint flicker of surprise that the trader knew his old orchard far better than he thought.
“Just as fresh, though. Time for a new blending, for cider and hard cider, I think. I’ll be getting shipments from my old valley, and stock from hereabouts. I guarantee you’ll enjoy my product.” And he winked with more confidence than he felt, and he could hear his brood rustle around behind him, the sound of all movement hushed, as they watched and listened.
“Good man! Good fortune to you getting fresh fruit with the stranglehold the Vaelinars have on the Ways. But if anyone can do it, you can.”
“Only with the help of good trader caravans.”
Oxfort’s mouth twitched, and he gave a nod before turning stiffly on his weak side to go, then his sight fell on something inside, and he stopped. He frowned. “Who is that?” His mahogany hand clenched the knob of his cane till the knuckles nearly went white.
“Why, my family is back there workin’, or they were.” Tolby jerked his head toward the shadows. “Three strong sons and my two daughters.”
Oxfort’s hard stare came back to rest on Tolby’s face, a darkness in his faintly blue orbs. “That is no daughter of yours.”
A chill swept over him and Tolby drew himself up. “Adopted, she is. And we love her no less.”
Oxfort opened his mouth as if to say something else, then closed it again, lips thinning. “Good day to your family as well, then. If your hard work here does not pay off, let Mistress Greathouse know I would be interested in buying out your paper. No sense keeping a good man anchored down to bad paper. I might be able to do something with these grounds.”
“I will, sir, but I think we’ll do.”
The trader gave a perfunctory wave before stepping onto the street and taking up the reins of a finely bred horse and leading it away behind him.
Tolby felt the tension leak slowly from him, even as it galled him to think that Oxfort wanted to buy his mortgage out from under him. He’d remember that. Business is not personal, but the Oxforts had power. If they’d wanted this place, why didn’t they move to buy it out sooner? Not a good enough bargain then, he supposed. Garner’s hand fell on his shoulder and he suppressed a jump.
“Is that what we’re to expect, Da?”
“From some.”
“How can you hate a man without knowin’ ’im first?”
“It’s more simply done than understanding.” Tolby patted his pockets down, looking for his pipe, then just stood there trying not to clench his fists.
“They’re fools, then.”
Keldan said quietly, “We’ll just have to watch out for fools.” Sawdust curls liberally sprinkled his thick, curly black hair, and dusted even his eyebrows. He looked more like his father and brothers with the gray-brown of the dirt spattering him.
Tolby turned about. “Is the place clean yet? Sounds awful quiet unless it’s clean.”
Immediately, the five stirred into action, the sound of sweeping, hammering, stacking filling the air. Hard work was better than thinking sometimes, Tolby muttered to himself, and reached for his saw. Dust motes swirled about in the air, and in them seemed to be a pattern as if foretelling the future, but he had no head for that. Leave that to Lily and Robin Greathouse, and they weren’t about now. Lily had walked to the milliner’s and tailoring shop to present her keys and letter, and she’d insisted on going alone the first day.
He wondered if she’d done it that way in case the store was in as bad shape as the winery and press. Thoughts like that were as useless as dusty cobwebs in his work area, so he brushed them out of his mind as he bent back to measuring and sawing. Despite the din of their work, he grew well aware when the shadows began to lengthen, and his heart gave a joyous extra beat when he heard her steps on the broken stone walkway outside. He did not lift his head from sawing, however, till she broke the light of the threshold, calling out, “Derro! I’m back, everyone!”
She wore a shiny key on a velvet ribbon hanging from her belt, the insignia of a storeowner, the key she’d kept in her purse until she could present herself and her papers at the shop. Summer heat flushed her face, and her hair was no longer as neatly swept up and knotted as when she’d left that morning, but her eyes sparkled.
He straightened slowly. “So. How was it?”
“It has so much possibility, Tolby! Good work space and chairs for the customers to sit, and a wonderful full-length mirror, and fine tables to lay out patterns for cutting and . . . well, just wonderful.” She fanned her face as she ran out of words. “Of course, the assistant there has no imagination, and the manager who left is dreadfully old-fashioned...even Stonesend was more abreast of styles, so I have my work cut out for me.” She laughed at that, pressing her hand to her mouth at the horrible pun, as her family gathered round her.
After she sent Nutmeg and Rivergrace off to see about dinner—they’d put a clay potted fowl to cooking before she’d left, and it ought to be ready by now—Tolby kissed her forehead. “That good?”
“Yes. Yes, I think it is.”
“No trouble on the walk?”
“None. This neighborhood is in the fringe of a fine but disliked neighborhood of Vaelinars, it seems. Many avoid walking here.”
“The shop?”
“In an area that used to be quite fashionable and still has a draw. People will come if they like the clothing, I think. We won’t starve, at any rate.”
“A good thing, that. Those three boys can’t be filled with apples anymore, and they’ve holes in ’em, I wager.”
“You’ll see they’re well fed.” She kissed him back. “You’ve never failed us.”
“Yet,” he grumbled. “Yet.”
“Ever.” She hugged him tightly.
Tressandre looked up from her desk, and her eyebrows arched into an elegant look of faint surprise as he came through the doors held open by an ild Fallyn servant. “Back, then?”
“So it would seem. Perhaps your allure is irresistible.” He kept his tone light, wary of her mood which he’d entered unsure of, and still had not a clue.
“I doubt that. I sent you with a . . . message. I presume you have an answer for me?”
He tried to read her face beyond the arched eyebrows and could see only her anticipation. A dark gnawing grew in the pit of his stomach. “First, a question, if you would allow me.”
“Ah.” She pushed back from the desk. “Then my missive reached you.”
“It did.”
“And you are interested?”
“Only if I can pay the price.”
“Of course, there is one. It shames me,” and Tressandre flicked a glance downward, but did not convey the emotion she confessed to as she looked back at him, “but nothing in this life is free, even for a countryman.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to value you, as the queen does. I want you by my side, instead of hers, sharing in my trust. The Stronghold of ild Fallyn wants you.”
“And all this because of my supposed father?”
“Perhaps.” She tapped sharp fingernails on the desk, leaning back onto it. “Do you think of nothing else you can offer us?”
He could only think of the obvious. She wanted to get to Lariel through him, to know of her what Lariel did not display publicly, and that Sevryn would never do. “Leave my post and duties and join you, on the possibility that you might give me my paternal lineage? What if you are wrong? What if it is only a crumb in a trail of crumbs I could spend my life following?”
Her nails rapped impatiently.
He shook his head very slightly. “It is a handsome offer, to join the ild Fallyns, but one I cannot accept. Thank you, but no. My trials shall remain mine, though you have my gratitude for trying to help.”
Tressandre stood. “You have an answer to my challenge, then?”
“Warrior Queen Lariel refuses to accept your challenge to a duel of honor.”
Tressandre grabbed for a bell and rang it sharply. Its tones clanked into the sudden silence, and a servant appeared in answer to its summons.
“I will know what I wish to. You’ll want to tell me before you leave.” She paused, considering him, then gestured at the servant. “Take him downstairs to the blue chamber. I’ll be down when ready.”
The servant shifted abruptly and a chill of anticipation ran through Sevryn. Before he could move, an unseen weight descended on his neck, and he fell in agony, sliding into darkness.
He came to, fighting the restraints on his wrists and ankles, his body swaying between the heavy chains that held him strung aloft. The chamber, small and high-windowed, stood close and stark except for a few tables, stands, and blue-tapestried walls. Grooves in the floor led to a drain, and a rusty brown residue stained the otherwise blue rock. His clothes had been stripped away, and Tressandre, sitting cross-legged in a pose for meditation, raised her head to eye him, strands of sunlight highlighting her hair of deepest, darkest honey.
“Never believe that I am a creature of nothing more than desires,” she told him.
Sevryn fought the mild panic coursing through his body like blood in his veins, fought the need to be free of the restraints and chains, fought the Voice trying to rise in his throat and ask her, no,
force
her to release him. He swallowed down the panic. “I would never belittle you like that.” He told himself that she would be the key, her pain could be as nothing to what he must have gone through every day in all eighteen of his lost years, years his mind had locked away for good, experiences he had to remember, to understand, to have unlocked. Her pain would only release him. Or so he prayed, as fear rose in him like bitter water.
She rose, her lithe body moving with tightly controlled grace. “Yet you left and came back.” She picked something up from the stone table near her, and a glint of light streamed over the exquisitely slender blade. It gleamed steely sharp in her hand.
“I’m not so foolish as to think you sought ild Fallyn hospitality simply because you were roadworn, you who’ve been the Warrior Queen’s right hand for many a year, most of them unseen though under our own noses. Your loyalty is legend, and I am even more keenly aware of that now. She had to know she sent you back to face my ire.”
“I come and go as I will.”
A soft laugh sounded at his words. She picked up a second, even sharper and more slender blade, a flaying knife, and pricked the ball of her thumb on it. Crimson ran down the steel quickly. “We both know better than that.” She sucked the blood from her hand. Dropping the knives, she picked up a vial of crystalline glass, twisted and gilt, its clear structure colored by the liquid within it. She swirled it, eyeing the substance critically until satisfied by some quality within it before replacing it on the table. “Do you like pain, Sevryn?”
He answered carefully. “Sometimes.”
“You seemed to enjoy it in bed with me not long ago.”
“That would be one of the times.” He turned his wrist imperceptibly in the chain, felt it chafe against his skin, holding him tightly. He had pegs to stand on, but they bit uncomfortably into the soles of his feet. Not that far off the floor, but it was far enough that his body relied on the chains and pegs suspending him, aches beginning in joints and ligaments that would soon begin to throb.
Tressandre smiled briefly. “Pain opens us up to many possibilities.”
“Do you think so? I would think it merely . . . hurts.”
She shook her head as she retrieved the second knife she’d dropped. So very slender and deadly looking. He admired its workmanship even as he feared it held in her hands. She approached him, the blade in her long, graceful fingers. She had to stretch to kiss his mouth, but she did so, her neck arched and hair tumbling back over her shoulders, her mouth hot as it sought his. He yielded to her, letting himself sink into the sensual heat of her kiss, tasting the sweetness of it and the last coppery vestige of the blood she’d licked from her skin. Then he kissed her back, savagely, in the way he knew she enjoyed. After a length of time, she moved back, settling on her heels.
She scratched the inside of his thigh as she did. He looked down, to see a long welt dripping blood slowly, drop by crimson drop to the stone floor, her knife blade wet in her hand. Before the soft sound of surprise escaped him, she’d gone to her knees and licked away the blood, and looked up at him. The fear that she’d sliced so close to his vitals fled to be quickly replaced by a desire for her mouth.
“Again. Do you like pain?”
His answer came with the unbidden yet undeniable stirring of himself, a low groan he let escape to please her. She chuckled at that, a deep and throaty sound of delight, and stroked him once.
“Why,” he said, his own voice deepening, “take pain when you can have pleasure?” He looked downward at her. His Voice throbbed at the back of his throat, asking to be unleashed, demanding the chance to save him from whatever it was Tressandre had planned for him, and he swallowed it down roughly.