Treason's Shore (37 page)

Shaking off the last of the crowd, Evred took the Runners’ side route into the castle. When he reached the quiet of his own rooms, he glimpsed a blue-coated silhouette at the window, and had a single heartbeat’s warning before he recognized those shoulders, the long wheat-gold tail of hair.

“The privilege of a Runner is to enter and leave without fanfare,” Tau said, turning around and smiling. “I trust I did not break some rule of which I was unaware?”

He came to me first. Not to Inda. Why?
The war-drum tap of Evred’s heartbeat had changed for a blacksmith’s hammer. “No.” He entered the room, so the sinking light from the window fell on his face.

And saw shock widen Tau’s eyes. Evred shut the door with his own hands, then put his back to it.

Tau said, “When one sees people every day, change is usually imperceptible.”

Evred’s wits had flattened on the anvil. “You are making an observation about me?”

“You’ve aged ten years. Twenty.”

Evred flushed, then turned away, a hand half raised.

“You’ve never talked to Inda,” Tau ventured further.

Evred turned back, a sharp, angry movement. His face had thinned, emphasizing the bones; the creases Tau had seen between his brows and bracketing his mouth during the previous summer were beginning to etch into lines.

Tau gave a half laugh. Here it was again, that thrill of danger. “You have more power than anyone I’ve ever met. I could feel it coming upstairs here, the rings of guardians you’ve put between yourself and the world.”

Evred’s lips parted, then he stilled, shutting himself off. Tau watched it happen: the man was gone, leaving the closest semblance of a stone effigy humanly possible. He could feel the effort it took.

“You had a purpose in returning?” Evred asked, in the effigy’s flat voice.

“Yes,” Tau said. “To see you. Oh, Inda as well. And Hadand. And everyone else I met and befriended previously. But I’ve been thinking about you all through this past year. I even found myself trying to talk to you through Inda’s letters last winter, before my golden case got swept overboard in a storm.”

Evred had gone to the desk, his tense hands fussing purposelessly at the neatly stacked papers there. “Inda wondered why you had stopped writing to him.”

“I even brought a justifiable reason to return,” Tau said, and thrust his hand into his gear bag, which crackled promisingly. “About a dozen of the latest plays, because if any kingdom needs a theater, this one does. With your permission I will put myself to work.”

Evred said, “How?”

“Volunteers. My theory is that your Marlovans will be more willing to try something new if they have a hand in its creation. But that’s my public reason. My real one is . . . you.”

Evred opened a hand, a wary rather than promissory gesture. “Is it I or the kingdom you intend to benefit from your presence?”

Tau ignored the sarcasm. “I am discreet, and I observe things. Like this aura of distance, almost of threat, that surrounds you like a lightning bolt about to strike. No one truly separates heart from head except at the cost of sanity. You’ve become so angry that people feel it as soon as you enter a room.”

Evred had not moved, but the armor of aloofness was gone. His voice was soft with menace. “You think I’m malevolent? Or just insane?”

“You will compass both if you keep denying normal human emotion.”

“And you are my cure?”

“You have to be your own cure. What I can offer you is the chance to laugh. To shed some of the passion you work so hard to deny. You
know
that’s not sane or healthy, Evred.”

Infuriated to the point of nausea, Evred briefly closed his eyes. The rushing in his ears was back. He walked to the window and looked down without really seeing the great parade ground, where wanders were busy magicking away horse droppings, others busy with brooms to catch up the bits of straw and splinters of wood. “Get out.”

“I’m going to give my greetings to the others, then maybe find a likely tavern and sing for my supper,” Tau said. “I told Vedrid I’d take that last room in the guest wing, the one before the middle tower. It has the most private entrance.”

He went out, shut the door, and leaned against the wall for several whickering breaths. He was drenched in sweat.

Well, that went
. . .

Abandoning that thought, he bathed, changed, then went to hunt the others down one by one.

They were all happy to see him in their individual ways: Hadand flushing up to her hair, grinning like a girl when he bent to kiss her hands. Tdor smiled, and Tau wondered if it was hope or relief he saw in her quiet countenance. Inda was distracted, surrounded by several Jarls, Runners, and men Tau would soon learn were academy masters and assistants. Inda and Vedrid, as well as his old friends. Tau knew he was going to need an entire day for each of them. But he’d find the time.

He gracefully declined Inda’s offer to attend the banquet, and went into the royal city to visit the taverns again.

When the midnight bells rang he was waiting in his room as promised, and when Evred knocked just once a short while later, welcomed him in.

Dauvid Tya-Vayir and his escort reached home just as the harvest season began. The worry about what Uncle Stalgrid would say was so familiar Dauvid was not aware of its grip tensing him. It just was.

The Riders stayed in the stable to take care of the mounts. Dauvid paused to greet the dogs leaping up to lick his face and thump against his legs, tails batting the air. Then the two Runners brought Dauvid inside. They were passed along until they found Uncle Stalgrid out in the field, where he could see with his own eyes that no one sneaked an extra basket away at shift change.

The air was hot, full of buzzing insects; in the far fields, voices drifted faintly, singing old Iascan harvest songs.

“There you are,” Uncle Stalgrid said. “I’ve received no complaints of you. No praise either, but that’s as usual. No bootlick of Evred Montrei-Vayir’s is ever going to bestir himself on your behalf. Did the claphair strut his battle stories?”

“Not much. Boys asked, but—”

“Any changes from what I told you to expect?”

“Just, we got taught some of the Fox drills, but everything else—”

“Pirate tricks. What use is that in honorable battle? Well, the claphair is trying to win the favor of the boys, that’s obvious. What dishonorable name did they stick on you?”

“Honeyboy.”

“I hope you fought whoever did it.”

“Yes. That is, I think—”

“Break their teeth? You have to break teeth, or they don’t take you seriously.”

“No, I—”

Uncle Stalgrid’s eyes widened. “You what? Were afraid? Of the boys? Of King Willow? If you’re afraid of a smack or two, then I’m going to have to waste the winter season toughening you up again.”

Dauvid braced for the expected smack. It was too hot for much more, and Stalgrid wanted to keep his eye on the harvest, so he sent Dauvid away.

Dauvid’s head hurt as he trudged back to the castle, where he found the women in the far yard, pumping lake water in to soak the flax.

As soon as she saw him, Aunt Imand beckoned and took him inside. “I promised your mother you’d get food and drink first thing,” she said, and while he sucked down cold water, she pulled a knife from her wrist, sliced some fresh bread for him, and stuffed the bread with cheese and smoked turkey.

She stood over him while he ate, and when he was done, she said, “What did you learn this year?”

He told her, a jumbled rush of words divided equally between bragging and complaining about lessons, the Fox drills, scragging, the fights he got in, who won, who lost, who cheated. He hated the name they stuck on him, Honeyboy.

“There’s worse,” she said. “There are far worse names.”

Dauvid had been afraid that he’d end up Dogbutt because his uncle was Horsebutt, so he did not argue. “How’s my cousin?” he asked, referring to Horsebutt and Imand’s baby.

“He’s got about ten words, and just started walking.”

“Should I be teaching him something?”

“Next year,” she said, with a pensive smile he did not understand. “There’s time. Soon’s you’re done, you go to the armory. The scythes always need sharpening.”

Chapter Twenty-four

T
HE first sliver of the rising sun sent golden ribbons of light from the east to the captain’s gig that Fox sailed alone. Directly south, Ghost Island blocked the stars, a dark mound against an equally dark sky.

As the freshening breeze lifted the gig’s sail, the strengthening light and increasing proximity gave the mound texture, color, and finally dimension, its features sharp and clear in the pure morning air.

Fox glanced back. A thin, faintly glistening white line began to coalesce between him and the main island. It lay too low to be a white squall, which was good, but he’d never seen a fog form so rapidly.

Wait. Yes, he had. Signi the Mage had once made one by magic when Inda’s small fleet stumbled into the entire Venn armada.

Damn.

As the wind kicked up he leaned into the tiller and sped toward the island. There was the rocky promontory, and the three trees twisted round one another.

He sailed into the cove, its tranquil water a deep aquamarine. His wake rilled out, disturbing the mirror-smooth water.

Fox anchored in as close as he could, flung his boots, socks, weapons belt, and wrist sheaths to the beach, then dove from the rail. The air was already heating up. The water was just cool enough to be refreshing, waking him up from his all-night sail.

As he waded ashore, the light changed subtly. Drifts of vapor veiled the mountain above and wreathed through the feather-edged fronds growing in profusion right down to the edge of the sand. Fox sniffed the air. The familiar salt tang of the sea surrendered to the complex aromas of vegetation growing, blooming, and rotting, enriched by pungent spices, sweet fruits, and fragrant flowers. The thick foliage rustled, but Fox figured the cause was hidden birds and animals. Not ghosts. He had to admit that ghosts seemed to exist, perceivable to some, but no one had ever claimed they could do anything but drift about. Fine. They could drift all they wanted, if that’s what kept the people on the populated island away from this one.

He climbed onto the sand and sat down to pull on his boots. He belted on his weapons, checked the fit of his boot knives, then started up the trail.

He still did not know why he was here. What was he going to do once he’d determined that the treasure was intact? Fight all comers? He cursed under his breath as he walked, the familiar rage seething in his gut.

Halfway along the trail to the waterfall that hid the entryway to the treasure cave, the crawling sensation of being watched had settled into conviction.

He reached the last bend before the waterfall. There waited a man dressed in white shirt, riding trousers and boots. His hands were bare, his brown hair tied back. He was seated on a rock, his attitude one of patience.

“Good morning, Savarend.” The man smiled in welcome.