King of Assassins: The Elven Ways: Book Three (17 page)

Lariel leaned over her forearm, staring down Farlen. “The old grudge you speak of freshened less than a breath before the Raymy attack, and if she had had her way, Tressandre ild Fallyn would be sitting here today in my place. I blame her or Alton for Jeredon’s death, though I can’t prove it. Yet I would trust Tressandre before Quendius and it seems she’s already tried to kill my heir.”

“Harsh.”

“But necessary.”

Tranta pushed himself from the window and came to the table next to Lariel, sharing her space without touching her, his lamp-thrown shadow falling across her momentarily before he leaned over the map. “You have another choice.”

“What?”

“Let Abayan Diort in, and give him territory to protect.”

She gave a dry laugh. “And he is the reason I gathered my armies in the first place. Without an inkling that the Raymy were returning, I set myself against a dictator forcing clans of his people to unite under his banner, wanted or not. The only good he’s done was to mobilize us, in defense against him.”

“He is one of those wheels Daravan set to spinning, and he showed other colors when he found out the truth and honor that were needed. He has proven himself.”

“Not to me,” Farlen grumbled. His voice, not nearly as deep and basso profundo as his predecessor, still rattled comfortingly about the war room. The corner of Lariel’s mouth twitched in fond remembrance. “I will, however, grudgingly admit to Tranta’s point.”

“He has to me.” Tranta reached inside the cuff of his sleeve, withdrawing a small scroll of paper tied with a cord. “And Bistane agrees with me.”

“I am ambushed.”

He smiled softly at Lariel. “No, my lady Warrior Queen. You are merely being persuaded.” He reached out, took her hand and turned it over, dropping the scroll into her open palm. If his touch upon her lingered more than necessary, both she and Farlen seemed to ignore it.

Tranta moved away then and tapped his chest. “Would I blame a companion who was not here to defend himself? Never.”

Lariel opened the scroll and read it, a faint furrow between her eyes remaining as she did so. She let the paper snap back into place as she released it. “I’ll think on this, gentlemen. Perhaps you forget that these lands are not mine to give away, none of them but Larandaril. At least you aren’t pushing to have him court me.” Both murmured, and she shushed them, slicing a finger through the air. “But before I do, I will ask my Hand what he thinks of this proposal.” She stood. “When he returns. Any other news we should stew over?”

“Perhaps,” he offered tentatively, “the Jewel can yet be of service. It still has certain protective qualities.”

“I’ll leave that to you. Then we are adjourned here for the moment. We speak of little new, but we all knew that. I . . .” her voice caught slightly. “I am not one to plot a war without the help of good friends and good advice. Stay the night and get a fresh start in the morning. Bistane has been delayed, but he should be here then, and I’ll let him know what we’ve discussed. Sevryn carries more details that we should know.” Her words sounded more hopeful than the tone of her voice.

Footfalls sounded in the hallway. Boots with studded heels, from the noise of them, resounding upon wooden planks where carpet had once lain and had been pulled up ever since an attack on this room had come with little warning and Osten Drebukar had been assassinated, his great bulk thrown across the doorway to protect the queen and others within. The scribes stopped scratching ink over paper and looked to the doorway in consternation.

Tranta raised an eyebrow. Lariel’s chin went up in answer as she shrugged. She was not surprised at the late guest, for the border of Larandaril, though now open, still had wards that identified who passed it. She knew who crossed her boundaries, although she also knew the act might have been transitory and purposeless. She braced herself as talk stilled and the interloper paused in the doorway to lean upon the threshold.

Alton ild Fallyn, faint amusement in his smoky green eyes and the lamplight giving his hair more gold than it normally held, he being a subdued shadow of his brilliantly green-eyed and wild-honey-haired sister, looked disinclined to enter without suitable recognition. If he resented being an echo of Tressandre, he had never shown it, wrapping himself in his own brand of arrogance. Indeed, his devotion to his sister often made others uncomfortable. He traced a slight bow to Lariel from the doorway. Trail dust lay upon his black-and-silver clothes and field mail, giving them a sooty and indistinctive look. “A council of war and I or my sister not invited?”

“A briefing is hardly a council, and for that I would not have wished to pull you from the lines. We are only dogs worrying at an old bone without meat. Though here you are, and it’s fortunate. I will have fewer notes to send out. And yet, because you are here and not at your post, I have cause to worry. You have news? Shall I ring for supper?”

“Supper, I have eaten, but I do carry news. May I sit and share?”

“Always, my lord Alton, are you welcome at Larandaril.”

A glint flashed in his eyes as he entered the room fully. “And so much more pleasant it is to visit Larandaril these days, with its borders open.”

“As they should be during times of war to our friends and allies. Luckily, I can always close them if necessary.”

“Still, it is nice not to have the threat of imminent death lingering against the back of one’s neck like a sharp, cold chill.”

“Oh, the threat is still there, Alton ild Fallyn. Just not as swift and without explanation as it might have once been. The borders of Larandaril have been lowered but not eliminated.” And Lariel smiled slowly as she spoke. “Our enemies are still recognized. Your business must be important, to have brought you from the lines without my knowledge or leave.”

Tranta muttered something no one else in the room caught although Lara leveled her sharp gaze on him for a moment, and he fell silent. The lines of his body, however, took on a defensive stance, for there was no love between the House of Istlanthir and the Hold of ild Fallyn. The corner of Alton’s mouth quirked as he strode to a place at the far end of the table and sprawled into a chair, a crust of dirt falling off the toe of his boot as he ignored the import of Lariel’s statement. “News, then, as the hour grows late, and I presume we’re all wearied. M’lady Lariel, Warrior Queen of the Vaelinar and princess of Larandaril, greetings from my sister Tressandre ild Fallyn, heir of the Fortress of ild Fallyn.”

“And greetings returned,” replied Lara, her tone deliberate and heavy as if the formal words offended her somewhat. Farlen twitched as if thinking to move himself between them, yet failing to do so.

Alton’s teeth showed faintly through his smile. “I bring you news of joy. Tressandre ild Fallyn is with child, carrying your brother Jeredon’s progeny.”

A long silence fell upon his words, broken finally by Lariel taking a slow, deep breath.

Farlen did move then, saying, “It is probable she is pregnant. How is it possible it is Jeredon’s? The man is dead.”

Both of the other men stared at him, and Drebukar’s ears reddened a touch. “Don’t,” Tranta told him, “make me explain sex to you.”

Lariel’s fingers sliced through the air. “My brother has been dead these many months, and it hurts me to think Tressandre withheld this from us.”

“She delayed to make certain that she would be able to carry it, not wishing to raise anyone’s hopes for a pureblooded heir. The rigors of the battlefield and training for further warfare do mark a woman’s body more than a man’s, though I own she has, and always will, hold her own among any. She does, however, now celebrate the pregnancy and offers the realization that a pure Vaelinar would be a far better heir than the Dweller crossbred Nutmeg Farbranch is carrying.”

“How noble of her. Has anyone confirmed it yet?”

“Two healers and a priest who swears he can read the soul blossoming within.”

“I seldom believe a Kernan priest,” Farlen muttered. “If a priest was to be of any use, he would tell us what sex the child is, boy or girl.”

“We’ve no reading on that yet,” Alton agreed with Farlen, “although a hale babe would be a blessing under any gender, would it not?” His mild green gaze alighted on Lariel and lingered.

“Of course it would.” Lariel lifted her chin almost imperceptibly. “Tell Tressandre that we welcome her news, and look forward to the day when we can see my brother’s child born and healthy. I can hardly wait to recognize the stamp of his features on the child.”

“And so I will.” Alton got lazily to his feet, returning to the threshold and then pausing as if he’d almost forgotten something. “Shall I tell her you are preparing a Writ of Succession?”

“There is already a Writ in place, for the issue of Jeredon Eladar and Nutmeg Farbranch.”

Alton canted an eyebrow. “My sister told me you would speak thusly, but I disagreed with her. Never, I said, would Lariel Anderieon replace a pureblood Vaelinar with a half-breed.”

“Then you are both wrong. It is not the fullness of the blood that will decide me on my heir.”

Tranta and Farlen grew very still. The look between Lara and Alton held, and strengthened.

“You doubt, then, that she carries a child?”

“Oh, I am most certain she does. I think higher of Tressandre than that. What doubting I would have, if any, would be the paternity of it. If I had such a reservation. And, if I did, I would hold onto it until after the birth when things might be . . . clearer.”

“Sometimes when we hesitate until we can see clearer, we end up blinded entirely by our delay.”

“That is possible. But hardly probable.” Lariel’s hand twitched by her side. “The ild Fallyn must have forgotten that I have Talents as well as they.”

“We would never be that hasty as to forget. Tressandre has bid me, then, to leave you with this information. In lieu of support from the family of her child’s father, she may be forced to look elsewhere. Perhaps among those who seek to return and reestablish our lost roots. She is not threatening action but only telling you that it must be among her considerations.” Alton gave a half-salute and retreated from the room, his boots telling of his movement down the hallway, quick and decisive but not quick enough to be call a full-fledged run.

Farlen let out a growl when the steps grew dim.

“She means to go to the Restorationists. How do you intend to deal with them?”

“Is that what they call themselves now? How can they hope to return to a . . . a rift which cannot be opened by their command and which holds only the unknown before them? We were exiled. Do they think to return and find welcome arms? They are idiots.”

Farlen and Tranta nodded. She considered both of them a moment before answering slowly, distinctly, spelling out her judgment. “We’ve a war to finish, first. Then we shall deal with our countrymen who wish to attempt to return. The portal which the Ferryman left in his wake is both unstable and very weak, and I doubt their gateway is usable. If it were, we would know for a certainty that is where the Ferryman will return. For all the dreams of those who’d go back, I don’t believe the way home is there. There has been no traffic through it, be it as slight as a gnat or formidable as the Ferryman and his tide of Raymy.” Not in the weeks since those in battle had seen a glimpse of their home world, lost Trevilara, through the Way the Ferryman had opened. Home. Thought lost forever, and banished from their memory, and yet seen once more in the direst of circumstances. But it had been glimpsed, undeniably, and Daravan, the Ferryman, and the army of Raymy had gone there, indisputably, before the portal all but shut. That moment, to those who had seen, stayed emblazoned in their memory. It had happened once. Surely it could happen again, and there were bound to be those who wished to try going back even though Kerith had been the world for Vaelinars for centuries.

“There are those who wish to return now.”

“Leaving our allies on their own to fight the reptiles?”

“Even so.”

“They think they can force the gate.”

Farlen shifted his weight. “Their actions tell us they do. I haven’t the reports to give us details yet, however. Other than that they will be manipulated, if not headed by, the ild Fallyn.”

Lariel sat down. “Madmen will always want more than they should expect.” She traced a design on the tabletop. “I have other, more immediate problems. It can’t be true,” she remarked quietly.

“Of course not.” Tranta moved a step closer to her. “Tressandre doesn’t know the meaning of truth. Why didn’t you reject her out of hand?” He gestured. “The sheer politics of it.”

“I can’t blatantly call her a liar to her face. There are too many who already mutter under their breath that I might favor Nutmeg and we can’t even be certain who called for her death, not yet. I can’t, without definitive proof, reject Tressandre’s claim. You must know that, both of you.” She rubbed an eyebrow thoughtfully before continuing.

“She is too late. My brother Jeredon did not marry Nutmeg Farbranch, but he knew she was with child, and he acknowledged this to me before witnesses and before we parted.” She stopped, the sound of her lies drumming in her ears. Nothing on the expressions before her denied her words. Then she plunged ahead with what she did know. “He also said he would contrive a dalliance with Tressandre to distract her and her brother from Nutmeg, to protect her from any possible ill reaction from Vaelinars, since she is a Dweller.” Farlen canted an eyebrow, but Lariel charged on. “As Lariel Anderieon, I will consider Tressandre’s claim and the child will be welcomed into our line, but it won’t displace Jeredon’s legitimately recognized heir. If it . . . if it appears to be Jeredon’s, I have to consider a joint rule. If she wishes to be so foolish as to take her child with her when they secede, then I will have no choice but to remove the child as an heir of House Anderieon. What she does beyond the Ways of Kerith, I can’t condone or support if she’s foolish enough to try to go back. As a Restorationist, she must make that judgment on her own whether ’tis better to take her baby into an unknown or remain here and raise it within our House, braiding an alliance between our two lines. I pray that she will see fit to conduct herself as benefits all Vaelinars.” She paused, out of breath.