“There.” Her voice, tired but triumphant, snapped his eyes open. She sat next to him, leaning on him, her body so insubstantial he hadn’t felt her weight. As transparent as a ghost, he saw and felt her come back. On the cave flooring, piles of slag and goo glistened in the torchlight, beginning to dry and harden where her hands had combed it from the waters and thrown it aside. Rufus bent his shoulders against the rising current, holding the rotten wood dam in place, and she said, “Get out now. It’ll sweep through.”
Sevryn gave him a hand up, and wood splintered wetly, and the sluice and dam came apart, water foaming up iridescently in the cavern depths, and swept by them.
They helped each other back out. Sevryn looked at the piles as they passed them, seeing the black and copper and even blood-red rivulets turning into solid heaps of refuse.
That she had done this.
He knew then that she was meant for the Andredia, that they could lose her yet, and he didn’t know how to tell her or how to lead her onward. He put his head down and kissed her forehead, hiding his anguish in the daylight as they emerged.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
“NO WORD FROM SEVRYN?” Lariel stripped off riding gloves as she asked, each tug on the soft leather punctuating her words, her forehead pinched as she did.
“None.” Jeredon, already dismounted, gave the reins over on his gray gelding to the horse boy, a wizened, silver-haired elder who always cackled when called by his title.
“Daravan, I could expect this from. We don’t hear from or about him for decades, but Sevryn I thought more of. If he’s not dead, I might kill him for this.” She swung her leg over, jumping down lightly from her tashya mount.
“We don’t know what he’s doing.”
“No. We just know that we’re two days from meeting with the weaponsmith and armorer, and that he’s nowhere about. He has Gilgarran’s stubborn lack of regard for protocol.” She reached back and pulled a long hairpin, and her silver-and-gold hair tumbled down to her shoulders and back, freed.
“He’s already given you an opinion on that meeting, I believe.”
“You disapprove as well.”
“I’ve always found that if you draw a sword, you’d best be prepared and able to use it, for you’ll be forced into using it. You know that far better than I. You won the title of warrior.”
She gave her reins over to the horse boy who bowed before leading them away to the tether lines. “Jeredon, our home is being destroyed. Slowly, agonizingly, and the Andredia with it. I don’t know if they’ve opened some fell Way into my kingdom or if they’re poisoning the waters. I don’t even know yet who
they
are. But I won’t stand idle. I will destroy them before their work is done.”
“You’re meeting with Abayan Diort who raises armies in the east.” He paced her easily, shortening his long strides to do so, as they crossed the camp toward the pavilion tent of the Captain of Arms, Osten ild Drebukar.
“He isn’t the one attacking us. Yet. He’s too busy consolidating himself in his homelands, and between us lie the barren stretches of the warlands. You don’t bring an army across that lightly, there is no way to live off that land. The logistics alone keep him away from us for the time being.” Lariel paused outside the captain’s quarters. “It’s the man partnered with him that I want to size up, this Quendius.”
“And I agree with her,” Osten boomed, exiting his pavilion, extending his hands to Lariel. The youngest scion of House Drebukar, his older brothers tied to Istlanthir for the holding of Tomarq, he’d come to Lariel as Captain of Arms, welding their houses together in politics and support. Tall, broad, dark-haired, and green-and-caramel-eyed, his shoulders and arms impressively muscled from years of swinging a sword and lance, he had had little work to do in Larandaril, going back and forth between the two kingdoms, training personal guards mostly. Now, his eyes gleamed with the knowledge that his skills might finally be of use. He rubbed the scar which divided one side of his face from the other, a reminder of an errant blow which had marred his handsome features but not split his skull as intended. It was said to have been a training accident struck by Garran ild Fallyn in defense of his sister, but with that House, one never knew. “Quendius has eluded most of our efforts to find out who he is, what he can do, and where he bases himself, but it seems he’s been selling weapons for some time, in defiance of the Accords.”
“Which have been laid aside.”
“But which, when followed stringently, greatly limited arms manufacture and sales.” Osten held the insect netting aside for Lariel as she ducked her head to enter his pavilion.
“It doesn’t seem to have deterred either him or Diort.”
“No. It will be interesting to see how this partnership of theirs functions, eh? Quendius is a mix of our blood, and Diort’s purebred Galdarkan guardianship must boil in him for treating with the weaponsmith.” Osten pulled out a campaign chair for his queen and seated Lariel with a flourish.
“I think you thrive on this.”
He seated himself, still smiling broadly at Lariel. He adjusted his tabard divided into halves of both Tomarq and Larandaril. “It is your presence I thrive on.”
She gave a feminine snort, and he winked at Jeredon. “I hear I have a rival! Bistane hardly left your side during the Conference.”
She flicked her fingers at him.
“Enough teasing,” Jeredon muttered. “We enter the site day after tomorrow at high sun, and what do we expect?”
“We expect them to already be camped and waiting, with wagons and crates of the goods they intend to supply. I’ll be posting the men tomorrow as we move into the area, and the day of, I’ll inspect the cargo. Tiiva will be there for an accounting, and we’ll dicker on the prices.”
Lady Tiiva had already retired for the evening. Despite her affinity for hunting jaunts, her delicate constitution did not lend itself well to trips of this sort, it seemed, and they’d made a forced march to keep this appointment. Lariel had found only a few days of peace at home after fleeing the Conference, when this meet had been set up. He tapped a broad finger on the fold-up table beside Lariel. “Jeredon will be making his way through their entourage, seeing the quality of the weapons on his men, and the maker.”
“You think they will sell us inferior goods?”
“I think they may well try. Not inferior, per se, this Quendius seems to be adept at what he does, but not up to the quality of their own arms. We’ll make our deal and depart.”
“Giving us what?”
“Enough arms and armor for a start, and enough intelligence to deter any surprises. The best offense, m’lady, has always been a good defense as you’ve been well versed to know.”
Jeredon crossed his booted ankles as he stretched out in his chair. “I think we ought to just wipe them out, then and there. Save us trouble later.”
Osten shook his head slowly, his thick dark hair waving about his head like a mane. “They could be allies later. I expect we’ll be fencing with them now and then, but my gut tells me they’re not the enemy we need to brace for.”
“No insult to your gut, Osten, but none of the younger among us have really been in warfare. What does Bistel’s gut tell him? That’s what we need to know.”
“Other than giving us stories of a living skeleton wielding a bloodthirsty sword, Bistel has been remarkably quiet,” Osten answered Jeredon.
“He’s Bistel Vantane, of Hith-aryn. We should never discount what he tells us.”
Lara said quietly, “That’s enough. I won’t go through this argument with either of you again. There will be a war, a great war, and we must be prepared to see it through.”
“You can’t know that. And, if you insist on pressing it, your words become a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
Her mouth tightened and thinned. “I’ll send you from my side, Jeredon, if need be. No arguments.”
Osten cleared his throat in the awkward silence. Lariel stood. “I’ll leave you two to discuss how big a detail we take in with us and how to scout through their camp discreetly. Curse Sevryn’s hide. This is his business.”
The two men stared at each other after she’d gone.
“Do you think she’s wrong?” asked Jeredon, finally.
“I think,” Osten answered deliberately, “that none of us know what magic Lariel works, but it runs in her blood just as yours and mine does in ours, and she holds her title justifiably. I look forward to interesting times.”
Jeredon grunted before venturing, “I don’t suppose you brought some good, hard liquor with you? It doesn’t even have to be good, frankly.”
Shouting jolted her awake from a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep. Lariel sat up in her cot as the tumult surrounded her small tent. She did not use a pavilion as Osten did, preferring to keep her presence in any camp relatively unmarked, but it seemed the commotion raged about her. She grabbed her sheathed sword and strode outside, blinking in the flaring light of torches.
Guards immediately surrounded her. “Assassins on the grounds, m’lady.”
She looked through a wall of muscular flesh, trying to spot Jeredon. She finally saw him at the torchlit edge of camp, arrow fitted to his bow, ready to sight on whatever target presented itself. Osten’s booming voice shouted orders that cut through the noise and quieted it, so she refrained as he took charge. She turned slowly inside the circle of guards, but the nightfall revealed nothing to her beyond the illumination. A three-quarter moon hung silvery in the sky, and she would have preferred to see by that alone. The torches made her feel more vulnerable.
“What happened?”
“One of the watch is down, garroted. Body still warm and twitching.”
“Who found him?”
“Your brother, on the way to the latrines. He wasn’t supposed to be found till morning, if at all.”
Or he was supposed to have been found quickly, she thought, lying on the path to the latrines was hardly out of the way. She continued her examination of the outskirts of the camp, fires out for the night, the scattered groves they had camped between, the Andredia lying not far away.
She paused, a fierce burning at the back of her neck. Lara pivoted nonchalantly as if still searching in vain, but her gaze fell on a small stand of trees just beyond the tether lines and far from the latrine trenches. A shadow separated itself from other shadows, swathed in black, and she felt his eyes meet with hers. A black-gloved hand saluted her, and then the Kobrir was gone, swallowed up by the element that favored him most.
Lara took a deep breath. “Stand down,” she said. It would be worse than useless to send anyone after him, for the camp would empty and she would be even more exposed, perhaps a desired result. “Whoever it was is gone.” She pushed her way through the guards, calling out, “Osten! Tell everyone to stand down!”
He had begun to bellow out her wishes when a new riot started by the horse-lines. The grunts and thuds of fists hitting flesh and the sound of scuffling carried. This was hardly the Kobrir’s style and why would he double back? she thought, and headed that way, guards thundering on her heels. A higher-pitched voice cried out, “We know her! M’lady queen! Rivergrace is missing!”
A short, determined form separated from the fray, flinging herself on Lariel, knocking both of them to the dirt. Osten lunged at them, whipping out his blade to lie across the throat of her attacker. Nutmeg blinked in amazement at the sword slicing between them.
“Hold!” sputtered Lariel, fighting for breath under the sturdy Dweller.
“I suggest you don’t move, lass, because I’m not withdrawing,” Osten rumbled at his hostage, his damaged face scowling downward.
Nutmeg, atop Lariel, froze.
“Withdraw,” Lariel told her captain as she began to wiggle free.
The blade removed with great reluctance and Osten held it loose, not sheathing it. Jeredon brought up a second Dweller hooked by the elbow, tall and slight comparatively for Dweller stock, who commented wryly to his coconspirator, “Nutmeg. You can’t tackle a queen.”
“I didn’t mean to! I was throwing myself on her mercy!”
“And knocking both of us on our duffs.” Lariel straightened her nightdress and dusted herself off.
“I take it you know these two.” Osten began to sheathe his greatsword, sliding it in very slowly.
“This is Nutmeg Farbranch and this, I suspect, is another of her many brothers.”
Garner bowed as well as he could, one arm still tightly hooked with Jeredon’s. “Garner Farbranch, m’lady Lariel.”
“Neither of them is tall enough to have garroted Frink, so I’ll post a walking guard and advise you in the morning.” Osten saluted her.
“Do that.” Lariel knew they would not have another encounter tonight, but her men needed to know of the concern and measures they would take.
“You have a man down?” Garner, whose resemblance to Nutmeg was not easily visible particularly in his sardonic expression, nudged his prone sister with a toe, adding, “You can get up now.”
“Yes. His body was found just before your appearance.”
“That would explain our welcome.” Garner eyed Jeredon, sizing him up. To his sister, he mouthed, “Impressive.”
Nutmeg blushed. Flustered, she worked on setting her blouse and traveling skirt to rights, as Garner continued, “We thought someone had crossed our trail a few times, but never caught sight of him. He’s quiet and clever, but even so flushed a bird now and then.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t see him. It likely would have been the last you looked upon.” Jeredon slung his bow over his shoulder. “That does not, however, explain why you’re here, skulking in the middle of the night.”
“We were NOT skulking.” Nutmeg’s stomach growled loudly in emphasis.
Lariel laughed. “And that explains what they’re doing here in the middle of the night. Come on, I’ll have a table set, you can talk, we’ll listen, and you’ll tell me why Rivergrace is missing.”
Talk waited a short bit till Garner and Nutmeg had plenty of food in front of them and Jeredon, sent out to take care of their horse and pony, returned to listen to the tale, for Nutmeg seemed loath to say anything without his being there. Nutmeg ate as if starved, while Garner watched her with a twinkle in his eyes, letting his sister grab the first of the foods laid out for them, and waiting till she’d gobbled some down before fixing his own plate. Jeredon watched, too, his face twitching slightly.