Wild Blood (Book 7) (3 page)

Seeing Ria’s hesitation, Cyril added, “Without Lord Emaril’s help, we won’t even be going to Allanmere.”

That did it.

“All right,” Ria said grudgingly. “I won’t make any trouble while he’s here. I promise.” She’d just have to puzzle out how to get along without “making trouble.”

“All right.” Cyril looked vaguely relieved at Ria’s promise, but he did not get up and leave as Ria had expected. He sat there in the straw, staring at her broodingly until Ria squirmed.

“What?” Ria said uncomfortably. “I promised, didn’t I? What else do you want?”

“Ria, do you remember that ceremony when we were younger?” Cyril said at last. “Where we said those pledges?”

Ria remembered it dimly. It had been more than a decade before. There’d been a priest wearing ornate robes who chanted and told her what words to repeat, she remembered that much; more clearly she recalled the discomfort of her formal gown and the huge feast afterward.

“I remember the feast,” Ria giggled. “You bumped my arm and I spilled the gravy all over you.”

“And you kicked off your shoes under the table,” Cyril chuckled, smiling, “and the dogs ran off with one of them.”

“You made a face at me,” Ria remembered, “and I threw a roll, and you ducked and it hit the Duke’s daughter sitting next to you. But when Father was going to punish me, you said it was your fault.”

“Well, it was,” Cyril admitted. “Sort of. And we still both got punished.”

“They locked me in my room for two days,” Ria said, shuddering. “But what about that ceremony?”

“It—well—” Unaccountably, Cyril blushed, then abruptly got to his feet. “Never mind. It’s not important, I suppose.”

Ria shrugged and watched him leave. Her foster brother was almost impossible to understand, too, and she’d mostly stopped trying. Only a few years ago they’d been the closest of friends, playing together constantly, getting into trouble together to fight the deadly boredom of the day-to-day routine at the keep. Suddenly his voice had started sounding funny and he’d started growing hair in strange places. His scent had changed, too, growing stronger and somehow harsher. At first Ria had thought Cyril was sick and that Lady Rivkah, even with her great healing ability, had overlooked it; sometimes it seemed that everyone around her was half-blind and deaf and could smell practically nothing. She’d expressed her worry to Lady Rivkah, who had only laughed and told her that Cyril was merely growing up.

And as if it wasn’t enough that he no longer looked or smelted or sounded like the Cyril she knew, almost overnight he’d begun to act like a stranger, too. He wouldn’t wrestle in the loft with her anymore, he no longer enjoyed sneaking off to the stream to swim—well, truth be told, he didn’t want to do much of anything interesting anymore. And more and more he gave her funny looks, too, the same sort of look the horses gave the stable boy when he was late with their grain.

It wasn’t only a boy thing, either. The young ladies at court, many of them younger than Ria, were stuffy and boring, prancing around in the stiff and heavy finery Ria so hated, prattling on tediously about the most idiotic subjects. If that was “growing up,” Cyril could have it and welcome. He seemed in a ridiculous hurry to do it, to Ria’s way of thinking.

As soon as she was sure Cyril was gone, Ria climbed down from her perch. Lady Sivia would still be looking for her, and Ria would quickly be found if she returned to her rooms, but it was nearing suppertime and Ria had no intention of missing a meal. She could always count on the scullery maids for a hot meal in the kitchens, and even a hiding place under a table or, if necessary, Cook’s voluminous apron if Lady Sivia made an uncharacteristic foray below stairs. Fortunately, as no new horses had been brought to the stable, it was obvious that Lord Emaril had not yet arrived, so there would be no repercussions from Lord Sharl and Lady Rivkah if Ria supped alone.

Ria sneaked into the kitchen by way of the kitchen garden entrance. By this time word of Ria’s latest exploit had already reached the kitchen, and the scullery maids knew Lady Sivia was looking for her charge, so there was a good deal of giggling as the girls picked choice tidbits from the pots to fill a heaping platter for Ria. She repaid the maids by telling the story of Lady Sivia’s gown and the lizard, mimicking the governess’s dance and expression as she’d tried to shake the reptile out the back of her gown, until every maid in the kitchen howled with laughter. That brought the serving maids and stewards, and Ria told the story three times before she finally finished her supper.

The merry party in the kitchen was interrupted by the news that Lord Emaril and his retinue had been sighted by the wall guards, and the scullery maids quickly returned to their cooking pots to have a private supper sent up. That meant that Lady Sivia would be helping Lord Emaril’s governess mind Lord Emaril’s four youngest children, so Ria judged it safe to creep back up to her rooms. To her dismay, however, she found her foster mother Rivkah there, laying out one of the gowns Ria hated so much.

“There you are,” Lady Rivkah said relievedly, scowling at Ria’s grubby state. “Have a quick scrub at the washbasin and get dressed. However did you manage to get all that hay in your hair? Lord Emaril’s here, and you and Cyril must be at the meeting.”

“Whatever for?” Ria said, dismayed. Other than the occasional obligatory appearance at feasts and so forth, she’d always escaped formal occasions with visiting nobility.

“Ria, don’t argue,” Rivkah said firmly. “We’ll talk later. You promised you’d behave; Cyril told me so. Now please get dressed.”

Ria knew her foster mother better than to argue with that tone; it meant that Lady Rivkah was worried and distracted and not likely to give any quarter. Ria disgustedly wriggled into the finery, hating the thick, binding layers of cloth that itched and stifled and weighted her down miserably. Even more disgusting were the stiff, uncomfortable shoes that cramped her toes and made her teeter precariously when she walked. And whatever was the use of the wretched things? Nobody could see her feet under her skirts anyway.

Lady Rivkah inspected Ria’s hands and face critically and sent her back to the basin to scrub the dirt from under her fingernails and comb the last of the hay from her tumbled black curls. The comb caught in a tangle, and Ria growled an oath she’d once heard the stable boy use.

“Ria!” Lady Rivkah’s voice was heavy with disapproval. “Young women don’t use such language.”

“I wish I could cut it,” Ria complained, giving the comb another tug and wincing. She wanted to retort that she’d heard Lady Rivkah mutter similar invectives, or worse, on occasion, but that would only provoke an argument.

“Young women don’t cut their hair either,” her foster mother said impatiently. “And neither do your mother’s people, as I recollect. Now come along quickly.”

Lady Rivkah hurried Ria down the corridor to the small meeting chamber, where the maids were hastily laying out a late supper. Lord Sharl was there in his formal surcoat, and Cyril, wearing his finest tunic and trousers, looked so dignified that Ria longed to tickle him. The temptation faded, however, when High Lord Emaril and High Lady Vesana entered, flanked by their personal guards.

Ria stared interestedly at the High Lord and Lady of Cielman. When Lord Emaril and his family had visited on previous occasions, or when Lord Sharl and Lady Rivkah had taken Ria and Cyril to Cielman, Ria had taken good care to avoid the adults, lest she be obliged to attend some of the formal suppers and meetings such a visit always brought. Now she was surprised to see that High Lord Emaril didn’t really seem all that much older than Lord Sharl, even though Emaril was the oldest of five brothers and Sharl the youngest. In fact, they looked a good deal alike, with the same steel-gray eyes and strong features, although High Lord Emaril’s hair was a slightly lighter blond than Lord Sharl’s, and High Lord Emaril had grown a short beard over his rather square jaw, while Lord Sharl remained clean-shaven. But Lord Sharl, like High Lord Emaril, had a few gray hairs scattered through his blond locks, and both men had the same frown lines between their eyes.

The two lords, however, had chosen very different ladies. High Lady Vesana was a tiny wisp of a woman, hardly taller than Ria, pale and fragile, with great dark eyes and soft brown hair. She dressed exquisitely and spoke very little; when she did speak, her voice was soft and musical. Lord Emaril tenderly helped her to a chair, and servants scurried to bring cushions for her feet; Ria remembered hearing somewhere that High Lady Vesana had almost died after the birth of her last child a year ago and was nearly an invalid now. The frail little doll of a woman could not have been more unlike Lady Rivkah, long-legged and golden-haired and full of life, a competent partner to Lord Sharl and a powerful mage as well.

The lords and ladies exchanged greetings, and, to Ria’s surprise, Lord Sharl introduced Cyril and Ria. In deference to High Lady Vesana’s comfort, Lord Sharl quickly had the large table moved aside and smaller tables placed beside each chair.

Already full from her earlier meal in the kitchen and wretchedly uncomfortable in her finery, Ria could only sit and squirm in her chair—her feet dangled far above the floor—while the adults discussed supply shipments and trade routes. To her amazement, Cyril seemed to know what they were talking about and made comments at several points, to which—even more amazing—the adults listened thoughtfully.

Lord Sharl had a map, nailed to a board and propped against the wall, that Ria found marginally more interesting. He showed Lord Emaril how the Brightwater River flowed past Allanmere to the south coast, emptying into the sea much closer to the southern trade cities than the Dezarin River leagues to the east of Cielman. Moreover, ships reaching the southern coast could then take advantage of the east-flowing current that skirted the south coast. The only disadvantage was that the Brightwater had never been completely charted or run by large ships, although rafts had taken measurements, and there was no positive assurance that the river was deep enough all the way down to the coast to support a heavy shipping trade.

“But this is the chance to find out,” Lord Sharl said. “If a river trade route can be established this far west, it’ll open up huge quantities of land for settlement. The trade roads already pass less than a day’s ride east of Allanmere; using the city as a midpoint where the ships and the overland caravans can exchange goods, the distribution of those goods can reach almost any part of the settled country in far less time and at a greatly reduced cost.”

“I can arrange two ships,” Lord Emaril said after a moment’s thought. “I won’t risk valuable cargo and ships on an uncharted river, but the thought’s worth testing. The ships will stop at Allanmere to deliver supplies; that’ll lighten the load for the southern leg of the journey, where the depth may be shallower than we know. If the route can be navigated successfully, we’ll discuss including Allanmere in a permanent river route—as soon as Allanmere can show that it has something to trade, that is, or that it can bring in the overland merchants to do their business in the city. That’s all I can offer.”

From the disappointment on Lord Sharl’s and Lady Rivkah’s faces, Ria could tell that it was far less than they wanted. Lord Sharl nodded, however.

“It’s a start,” he said. “At the present I don’t know that we’ll even have sufficient buildings repaired to house the settlers, much less establish shops and businesses. I think, though, that once news of the river route begins to reach the merchants, they’ll come on their own. The prospect of greater profits and a wider distribution will bring them.”

“For both our sakes,” Lord Emaril said grimly, “I hope it’s as you say. I’ve put a great deal of money—Cielman’s and my own—into this venture of yours. And you haven’t even managed to make your peace with your elven neighbors.”

“Ria and Cyril are the key to that peace,” Lord Sharl said. “We’ll have the ceremony as soon as we reach Allanmere. It’ll give the settlers time to gradually accept the idea of the alliance and pave the way for negotiations with the elves as well. If I can establish a trade between the city and the elves, the city will be able to trade in goods available nowhere else in the settled country, and open up a new market for our own goods, too.”

“You have a grand dream, little brother,” Lord Emaril said, smiling a little. “But so far that’s all it’s been. And you can’t feed your people on dreams. I’d have thought you’d learned that lesson already.”

“No one could have expected a barbarian invasion,” Lord Sharl said with a sigh.

“And nobody expects fires, floods, droughts, crop blight, hail, plague, dragons, and blizzards,” Lord Emaril said wryly.” Yet they come anyway. And a newborn city’s a fragile thing.”

“If there’s another disaster the likes of the invasion,” Lady Rivkah said quietly, “any city in the world might fall, newborn or not. Cielman itself was spared only because the main force of the army passed too far to the west.”

Lord Emaril had to agree with that. Bored, Ria nibbled at a sweet cake while High Lord Emaril, Lord Sharl, and Lady Rivkah talked about the proposed journey. Their endless discussions of quantities of seed grain, building materials, trade routes, and expansion rates continued until, despite her discomfort, Ria found herself nodding in her chair. She propped herself up and let a few curls fall into her face to cover her closed eyes and dozed, letting the conversation slide by her.

She’d never seen a forest, not a real one, but she dreamed of trees all around her, of cool green shadows and the smell of fresh warm earth and growing things. Trees would tower over her as tall grain towered over her when she lay down among it, but the trees would be much taller—taller even than the wall of the keep, as Lady Rivkah had said. She dreamed of innumerable sounds around her, birdsong that she recognized, other rustlings and swishings and cheepings she could not define. This was the world that should have been hers, her brother’s world. For a moment she could almost see him as Lady Rivkah had described the baby she’d seen only briefly, more human than elf, ears round as a human’s, black hair straight, but with their mother’s tawny gold eyes. He’d be tall now like a human, maybe starting to show muscles like Cyril and with hair growing all over him now, too. Unlike Cyril, though, surely he’d understand her, be her friend. He could understand how trapped she felt in these walls, how she longed to run and run without stopping, to strip off her clothes and feel the wind and the sun caress her skin as she ran. He’d lived with the elves, like wild animals free in the forest, and he’d understand how his sister felt caged within the keep.