Wild Blood (Book 7) (2 page)

Chapter One—Ria

“Come back here, you savage little beast!”

Ria darted around the corner and ducked through a doorway, knocking furniture aside as she leaped for the window. Almost she didn’t make it; this was the council chamber, and the small windows were set high in the wall for security reasons. Her tiny fingers and bare toes, however, found purchase between the stone blocks, and Ria scrambled merrily through the opening, shrieking delightedly as Lady Sivia raged him-potently behind her. Ria jumped down from the window ledge and glanced frantically around her for a hiding place; the keep’s grounds, however, were level and bare of trees and bushes.

Without hesitation, Ria ran for her one sure sanctuary: the stables. Lady Sivia was as terrified of horses as Ria was fond of them, and Ria had fled to the stable loft to escape her governess so many times that the horses no longer startled when the tiny barefoot figure charged into the stables and scrambled recklessly up the ladder to the loft. She burrowed into the hay and curled up in her hasty den, giggling to herself even as the dust of last autumn’s hay made her sneeze. In a few minutes, if events followed their usual pattern, one or two of the guards or servants would appear on Lady Sivia’s behalf, hunting for the governess’s errant charge. They’d look around the stable, and search even in the loft, but thanks to what Ria thought of as her “don’t-see-me,” they’d leave baffled and tell Lady Sivia that Ria must have somehow sneaked back into the hall and hidden there. Where else could the child have gone, after all?

Where else, indeed? This was only a small country holding belonging to her foster father Sharl’s brother Emaril, with but a few outbuildings—and those were now so tightly packed with supplies that even tiny Ria could not have wriggled into a hiding place there. It was early in the year and, although the kitchen gardens had begun to grow their crops of vegetables and herbs, there wasn’t enough foliage there to hide a good-sized cat. And there was nothing else within the keep’s wall except the keep itself.

Outside the wall, the land was similarly featureless. The few stands of trees that had once grown near the holding had been burned sixteen years earlier, the year of Ria’s birth, when the great barbarian army had swept down from the frozen lands beyond the great northern mountains. The main thrust of the army, Ria had been told, had passed west of this small holding, but the surrounding lands had been looted and burned by small raiding parties looking for food, and ravaged again later when the defeated barbarian force had retreated northward. The lands around the holding had been replanted in crops to feed the citizens of Cielman through the postwar famine, and even after the famine was over, the lush flower gardens and topiary mazes Lord Sharl had often described had never reclaimed their rightful places from the usurping wheat fields.

And a topiary maze would have made a wonderful hiding place just now, too. The thick, green late-spring grain was almost tall enough now to hide Ria’s slight form, but anyone standing on the wall of the keep and looking down could easily spot her. No, there was nowhere to hide but here in the stables, and unfortunately everybody knew it. Footsteps outside the stable—to Ria’s sensitive ears, the tread of the slipper-shod feet seemed as loud as the clop-ping of horses’ hooves. Ria smiled to herself and burrowed deeper into the hay, although the scratchy blades insinuated themselves down the neck and sleeves of her tunic and itched almost intolerably. She quieted her breathing and imagined herself small and insignificant. The stable door creaked open and feet scuffed in the scattered hay on the stable floor. The horses stirred in their stalls and snorted at this less familiar intruder.

“Ria?”

Ria almost jumped in surprise at the sound of the voice. If her foster brother Cyril, son of Lord Sharl and Lady Rivkah, had been sent after her instead of one of the servants or the guards, either Lady Sivia was far cleverer than Ria would have believed the stout matron to be, or she’d been so angry that she’d stomped straight off to Lord Sharl and Lady Rivkah to complain, and that boded disaster. Ria and Cyril had been the best of friends since they could do little more than toddle, but for the last few years Cyril had seemed more annoyed by her presence than otherwise, uninterested in what had always been their favorite games and pastimes, and he rarely sought out her company anymore of his own volition. If he’d come looking for her, he’d been sent.

“Ria?” She could hear Cyril climbing the loft ladder now. “I know you’re here. No use hiding from me.”

We’ll see,
Ria thought smugly. She almost gave herself away by giggling as Cyril stomped through the hay, once nearly stepping on her, prodding suspicious piles with his scabbard. Cyril knew better than to trust his eyes where Ria was concerned. Mice scattered through the hay, one running heedlessly over Ria’s leg. The tiny paws tickled unmercifully. Ria shook with stifled laughter, a burning ache starting in her chest from holding it in.

“Ria!” Cyril’s voice held a note of impatience now. His boots stopped right in front of the tiny peephole Ria had left in the hay. “Will you stop playing and come out? I need to talk to you.”

Ria waited until Cyril took the weight off one foot, preparing to step away. Suddenly she reached out and seized his ankle, pulling it out from under him, and Cyril roared indignantly as he tumbled into the hay. Ria leaped from her hiding place and jumped on top of Cyril, tickling him and stuffing hay down the front of his tunic until Cyril, laughing helplessly even as his face reddened with anger, finally flung her aside and scrambled back to his feet. The cracks between the rough-hewn wooden slabs of the barn walls were to Ria’s small fingers and toes as good as any ladder, and she fled up one wall, unmindful of spiders and splinters, and scrambled out onto one of the rafters where she perched, grinning down triumphantly at her foster brother.

“Will you be still and listen for one moment!” Cyril snapped, scowling upward furiously as he brushed hay and dust out of his golden hair. “If you don’t, I’ll tell Mother and Father about the lizard you stuck down the back of Lady Sivia’s gown.”

That sobered Ria. She’d be punished for her trick, no matter how the stout and pompous matron had invited it with her over-dignified stuffiness and courtly posturing. Lady Rivkah might even confine Ria to her rooms until the departure for Allanmere, and then Ria would lack even the poor diversion of watching the supplies being readied and the wagons loaded—let alone her favored pastime of pestering the guards and servants with tricks and endless questions. Life in Emaril’s keep was boring enough that any entertainment at all was precious, and the very thought of being penned up behind walls, unable to escape, made Ria shudder.

Ria sighed and settled herself resignedly on the rafter on her belly, hands under her chin, ankles crossed and knees hanging down on either side of the heavy wooden beam like one of the holding’s cats. Anything, even a lecture from her foster brother, was preferable to confinement.

“All right,” she said, sighing again.

Cyril plunked himself down on a bale of hay, scowling up at her.

“I don’t suppose you’d come down here to talk?”

Ria shook her head firmly. She was fair game for revenge on Cyril’s part, and he might be trying to trick her down from her safe perch. On high ground she had the advantage.

“You know we’re leaving for Allanmere in only a couple of days,” Cyril began. “As soon as all the preparations are finished.”

Ria nodded impatiently. Talk around the keep had been about nothing but the impending journey. Emaril’s servants and guards would likely be glad enough to be rid of Lord Sharl and Lady Rivkah and their son and mischievous foster daughter and the extra work they occasioned, although Ria liked to believe she had endeared herself to a fair percentage of the staff. Ria herself was desperately eager for the journey and an end to the placid and uninteresting life at the keep, broken only by a very few journeys to Cielman for Lord Sharl to visit with his brother. Sometimes she felt so restless, so caged, that it seemed she’d burst if she wasn’t set free. Often she ached until she nearly wept for something she could not name; sometimes she ran around and around and around the keep’s walls until her sides ached and her stomach heaved, and still it was not enough. This place, this life, was not enough.

Ria knew her discontentment was wicked and ungrateful; High Lord Emaril had been more than kind to give Lord Sharl and his family the use of the keep after the near destruction of Allanmere, when Lord Sharl had returned to Cielman all but penniless. High Lord Emaril had been supportive, too, of Lord Sharl’s efforts to raise money and settlers to rebuild the city, although Ria had heard Lord Sharl confide to Lady Rivkah that High Lord Emaril thought it a foolish venture.

Ria didn’t care how foolish Lord Sharl’s plan was. If it got her out of this stifling place and back to her true homeland, the home of
her people,
that was good enough for Ria. Seeing the glum look on Cyril’s face, however, Ria realized that he, perhaps, saw the journey a little differently.

“Won’t it be fun?” Ria said, her deep blue-green eyes sparkling excitedly. “New places to see, a whole city all for us, and a forest and a river and a real journey. It might take
weeks
to get there.”

“It’s not going to be much fun for a while,” Cyril told her glumly. “The stonemasons will have finished rebuilding part of the castle at least, but there won’t be many servants. It won’t be very comfortable, either, traveling by wagon, and it may be dangerous.”

“Dangerous? Really?” Ria almost trembled with eagerness. Until now, “dangerous” was distracting Yvarden, her foster parents’ mage, while she was casting leak proofing spells on the barrels. “Dangerous” was running too fast down the stairs while they were still wet and slick with soapsuds after being scoured. And “dangerous,” of course, was slipping a lizard down the back of Lady Sivia’s gown when the plump matron’s bulk was between Ria and the door. “Dangerous how?”

“Brigands,” Cyril said grimly. “Floods. Tornadoes. Earthquakes. And the elves near Allanmere, of course.”

“The elves?”
That
made Ria’s pointed ears prick up eagerly. “Why are they—we—dangerous?”

“They were dangerous before,” Cyril pointed out. “Read the histories. They used to shoot arrows at any human who got too close to the forest.”

“That was before the alliance between the elven clans, remember,” Ria said practically. “Before the barbarians came. The elves allied with the city during the war. Why should they be dangerous now?”

Cyril shrugged.

“It’s been sixteen years,” he said. “They may have decided that now that there’s no threat to them, they don’t have any need for an alliance. According to the messages Father and Mother have gotten back, there’s been no friendly contact from the elves. Father’s sent envoys to the edge of the forest, but the elves there shot arrows at anyone who came too close. Father said some of the border clans were always hostile to the humans, and he thinks those clans have claimed most of the border lands, so the envoys can’t get through to meet with clans who might be more friendly. If you’d ever sit still long enough to listen to what Father and Mother talk about at supper, you’d know that.” Ria fell silent. Somewhere in that forest she had a mother, a brother of her own blood—a brother she’d never seen, a mother who had handed her over to the humans like a piece of shoddy trade goods. Her brother had run free in the forest for sixteen years, not caged behind stone walls, not raised by strangers. Had her brother Valann or her mother Chyrie thought about her in all those years? Had they wondered how she fared? Had Valann ever longed to know her? Had Chyrie ever, even for a moment, regretted flinging her daughter aside like a piece of refuse? Or had they both put her out of their minds and gone their own way? Until now, Ria could only wonder. But soon she’d be near them, perhaps even meet them. Eagerness and resentment—well mixed with less definable emotions—warred in her mind.

“But I didn’t come to talk about that,” Cyril said, breaking Ria’s train of thought.

“What is it, then?” Ria said warily. Likely a lecture, then, after all. That, or he was simply acting as an agent of his parents to tell her how much trouble she was in—if not for the incident with Lady Sivia, then for something else.

“Lord Emaril is arriving tonight,” Cyril told her. “He’s going to be talking to Father about the money Father wants to borrow, and the ships to bring supplies down the Brightwater.”

“Ships?” Ria asked in surprise. “I thought we were going in wagons.” Traveling down the river by ship might be
much
more interesting. Why, Ria had never so much as seen a real river before, much less a ship.

“We are,” Cyril said, dashing Ria’s hopes. “But more supplies will be shipped down the Brightwater later. It’ll take so long to build the farming community back up, Father’s hoping to establish Allanmere as a river trade stopping point. It’s in a good spot for trade ships to stop between the northern cities and the south coast, and to pick up trade goods brought in by caravan from the east. Father’s going to try to persuade Lord Emaril to send a few supply ships down to try it. If Allanmere can get the river trade, the city’s more likely to attract the merchants and artisans it needs to succeed.

“So these negotiations with Lord Emaril are very important,” Cyril continued hesitantly. “Mother and Father need you to behave politely for a change, while Lord Emaril’s here. He and Father have never gotten along well anyway, and Father has to ask him for a lot of help. So you mustn’t do anything that might make Lord Emaril angry while he’s here. Mother and Father wanted me to ask you that.”

Ria scowled. She never quite understood what everyone wanted from her. “Behave politely” and “be good” were ambiguous and confusing concepts. It seemed impossible to predict whether her behavior would meet with approval or not. Sometimes seemingly everything that was any fun whatsoever was “wrong,” and only boring things like sitting still and reading tedious scribblings, or uncomfortable things like sitting still and wearing too much itchy clothing, were “right.” And sometimes even
that
wasn’t enough; “right” meant remembering when to curtsey and what to say and when to say it, too.