Oathen (14 page)

Sanych turned around, looking past the full
bookcases. Geret stood on a stool along the wall, adjusting the
cord that supported a new pair of red silken curtains which
partitioned the room. His shirt lay over the back of a chair, and
as he turned toward her, she saw a bejeweled medallion on a gold
chain around his neck.

Her face must have spoken volumes on the
subjects of confusion and annoyance, but she dared not open her
mouth. Geret’s jaw clenched as he met her eyes, but he didn’t speak
either. His face was taut as he pulled his shirt off the chair and
began to put it back on.

“Do you like my gift, Sanych?” Rhona asked,
her voice honeyed. “A medallion fit for a prince of any realm. It
once belonged to the son of the last emperor of
Kazhbor.”

“It’s…it’s lovely,” Sanych replied, trying not
to stare. “I hope it doesn’t chafe, Geret.”

Geret pressed his lips together and glanced at
Rhona.

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” the pirate said.
“I’ve kindly asked Geret to be silent for the time being, and to
perform some few tasks for the expedition. Sound familiar?” To
Geret, she said, “You and I both know I’m a far gentler mistress
than you were a master, don’t we?”

Geret turned to her and grinned crookedly, and
she laughed. Sanych stood rooted by disbelief as he walked over to
Rhona. As he pulled the door shut, however, he turned back and gave
Sanych a look so filled with sorrow and apology that she
gasped.

He’s faking! Oh, Wisdom save me, he’s
faking!
She collapsed into a chair and leaned back, staring at
the ceiling in overwhelming relief
. He’s not gone mad; he’s not
abandoning the quest and running off to be a pirate. Best of
all,
she murmured in the silence of her heart,
he doesn’t
love Rhona
. She took several breaths’ time to calm down before
the next obvious question rose in her mind:
So…what does he
think he’s doing?

~~~

“What do you think you’re doing?” Rhona howled
over the gale. Night had fallen, and the wind had kicked
up.

Ruel leaned into the wheel to keep on course.
“You’re letting me talk now?” he shouted.

“Aye! Now tell me what in the name of
Nethermaw’s bilious bowels you were thinking, talking to Sanych
like that!” She gripped the wheel against a particularly strong
gust, helping him hold the caravel steady.

“She deserves to know,” Ruel said, setting his
jaw.

“Who does and does not deserve to know things
is not up to you, First Mate Menihuna.” Rhona’s eyes flashed in the
blue light of a madly swinging lantern.

The reminder that he wasn’t captain should
have stilled his argument immediately. It didn’t. “You can’t keep
playing it both ways, Rhona!” he called over the howling
wind.

“What are you—” A line whipped loose down on
the main deck, and the crew on deck quickly dashed from their
protected locations to resecure it. Once she saw that the issue was
under control, she continued. “What are you talking
about?”

“You know what I’m talking about! You claimed
a dirtwalker, yet you expect him to walk the ropes you string for
him! It’s not going to work!”

Rhona’s fears bubbled dizzyingly to the fore.
That her cousin disapproved of her claim choice didn’t surprise
her—he’d always adhered to Clan rule more readily than she, as most
men did—but if he was talking back to her over this issue, what
other rebellious thoughts might he be fomenting? Surely he wouldn’t
use this to start a revolt aboard her precious ship…would
he?

“What’s your plan?” she asked, forcing the
words out of her throat. The wind slammed her braids across her
face, making her wince as one caught her across the eye. She jammed
it behind her ear.

“My plan? What’s
my
plan? What in the
deeps is
your
plan?” Ruel shouted back. “You shouldn’t have
claimed him in the first place! He’s a dirtwalker! If you’re that
desperate, you should spurn him and claim another! Any man on your
crew would be eager for the bump in status.”

“I’m not going to do that,” she shot back.
“He’s done everything I’ve asked of him today.” She paused, and her
features softened. “I think he wants to be with me as much as I
want to be with him.”

Ruel shook his head. “You can’t teach a pig to
dive for oysters, Rhona.”

“Of course I can. I’m very persuasive. It’s
just going to take some time.”

A gust of wind nearly tore the wheel from his
grasp, and he quickly wrestled it back to the proper heading. “I’ve
seen how you look at him. Don’t let him tempt you away from us.
You’re next in line for Prime. If you choose dirty boots over
blood, Agonbloom will fall.”

“I’d never turn from my blood! Is there anyone
more Clan than I am?” Her eyes pleaded with his. “I’m not turning
my back on the Clan. I’m trying to make it stronger. Once I’ve
brought Geret over to our side, he’ll bring his knowledge of the
landbound to Agonbloom, and we can use it to make ourselves even
more powerful. Then, everyone will see my choice as a brilliant
tactical decision.”

“Instead of a desperate move by a lovesick
fool?” Ruel asked, though his tone was teasing. “All right, shiny.
I won’t say any more against it. But you only have a few weeks to
get your heir squared away. After that, if Geret’s still not
sailing on your heading, you can scuttle the claim and still come
out ahead with Agonbloom. But you watch him closely. No more
full-moon eyes whenever he walks past.”

Rhona stood while the wind whipped her hands
with flaps of lace from her sleeves. Ruel had always been by her
side, and on her side. She owed him for his loyalty, when he could
easily have gotten her set adrift in a dinghy.

“Thank you,” she said, so quietly that he
almost didn’t hear her.

“You’re family, Rhona. My father might have
seduced my mother off the sea forever, but your mother raised me
alongside you. I’ve never forgotten that. I’m your right arm, and I
always will be.”

Their eyes met for a long moment, then she
nodded and slipped away, leaving him to the night, the wind, and
the remainder of his third shift at the wheel.

Three hundred and eighty-seven years ago

“We’ll be back before you know it
.”
Bjeski had spoken those words to Mindri two weeks ago, leaving the
young woman satisfied that Bjeski would take good care of her
brother and her promised as they set out to retrieve the lost
scepter of the last Storm King.

But as Bjeski’s shaggy alpine horse trudged
through the snow, leading the group still further into the remote,
unnamed mountain range on the border between Nen Thakka and the
frozen tundra of the Ianiu, the adventurers behind her started
bickering once again. She ground her molars in
frustration.

“You don’t touch my food anymore, Monnja,”
Hella warned, glaring through the long fur that rimmed her
hood.

“Why, are you afraid I’ll poison your
porridge?” the darker-haired woman responded.

“I wouldn’t put it past you. I’ve seen you and
Pon glaring at me. If I don’t make it home from this expedition,
though, Jann and Bervik will tell the truth of what
happened.”

Jann shifted in his saddle and looked back.
“Don’t drag me into this, Hella. We don’t need any more dramatics
on this trip.”

“That’s not what you said last night,” Monnja
teased, leading Pon to hoot in amusement.

“Stop it, Monnja. I’m promised to Mindri, the
Maid of Skissen, and you know it. Why are you even here with us?
You’ve got nothing to gain by coming on this journey.”

“You know that’s not true! Just because you
think bards’ tales are a waste of time doesn’t mean everyone does.
This adventure will be the basis for my bardic mastery song. It’s
going to make me famous in all the Trine Lands.”

Bervik barked a laugh. “‘Trine Lands’. Now
there’s an outdated term. Maybe if you talked like normal
people—”

“I wouldn’t be a bard, then, would
I?”

“You’re not a bard
now
, Monnja,” Jann
insisted.

A disgruntled quiet reigned. The only sounds
were of horses breathing and snow crunching. Overhead, the wide
sliver of blue sky dropped brilliant spring sunshine down onto the
steep slopes that surrounded the valley in which they traveled.
Wisps of cloud streamed from the mountain peak directly ahead:
their destination was finally in sight.

“So, this scepter,” Pon said, as if hesitant
to break the peaceful silence. “Does it
do
anything?”

“I bet it makes a lovely mace,” Monnja said,
glaring at Jann.

“You know what I mean,” Pon
insisted.

“No one knows what it does, Pon,” Jann said.
“It’s been lost for seven decades in some ice cave up on that
mountain. Most of the summers since then, the lords of the north
have warred for supremacy. That’s why my liege lord wants it; to
restore peace.” He looked at Bervik with approval. “His son shows
courage and determination by accompanying me on its retrieval
quest.”

“Isn’t it Bjeski who’s leading this quest,
Jann?” Hella pointed out. “She is in front.”

Jann glared at her, then forward to where
Bjeski rode alone. “It’s my quest, personally tasked to me by Lord
Skissen, among all his Outstriders. I’m not even sure why he let
her come.”

Bjeski bared her teeth into the chill wind and
reined in her horse, feeling her temper escape her control.
Allgods damn them each and all! They have no grasp of anything
beyond their own noses!

She turned her horse until it blocked their
way, forcing them to stop. “Lord Skissen ‘let me come’ because I
can get the scepter of the Storm King alone if I have to. I’m also
here to keep you all from dying, so you can return home and get
hailed as heroes. Which none of you deserve, considering the way
you’re acting.”

Monnja made a loud, derisive snort. “And you
are who, again? Oh, that’s right. No one knows who in the three
pits of doom you are! You just appeared a couple of months ago and
got all cozy with Bervik’s father, and suddenly you’re his artifact
retrieval expert? How many times did you have to warm his furs to
make that happen?”

Bjeski’s horse lunged past Monnja’s, and the
apprentice bard took a hard elbow to the chest, knocking her from
her saddle. She sat up in the snow to find Bjeski’s blade humming
below her chin.

“The instability in northern Nen Thakka is
causing the rulers in Jenka Nala to have issues,” Bjeski said in a
chill voice, “and I have a vested interest in seeing those issues
go away. If I find this scepter, the north calms down, and my
problem is solved.”

Her gaze shifted to the others. Hella sat
wide-eyed on her mount. Jann and Bervik had their hands on their
swords. Pon’s gaze was locked onto Monnja.

“My husband gave his life for a cause greater
than himself,” she continued. “I traveled here because I honor his
sacrifice and share his vision. I don’t need to warm anyone’s furs
to accomplish my goals. Unlike you, Hella, sneaking into Bervik’s
furs in the thin hope of a love match, or at least a small home and
stipend to raise his illegitimate child.”

Jann looked at the lord’s son with a raised
eyebrow.

“Jann’s here for a show of manliness, to keep
the younger Outstriders in line back at the castle,” she continued,
peeling off a thick mitten. “Now that I’m out here with Lord
Skissen’s blessing, he’s afraid I’ll outlast him and he’ll lose
respect. Well, that’s a given at this point.”

She stabbed herself in the hand with a hiss of
pain, letting red blood drip across her pale palm and down onto the
snow beside Monnja. Moments later, the wound healed over. She wiped
the excess off with more snow, ignoring the shocked stares of her
companions as she pulled on her mitten.

“Monnja needs a serious lesson in the social
aspect of a bard’s life; if you insult everyone around you, you’ll
not only alienate your audience, but you’ll never hear those
excellent, secret stories people hold close to their hearts.” She
turned to Pon. “And you: don’t think I don’t know you’re a spy.
Skissen’s strongest rival, Lord Hask, sent you to steal the scepter
from us, killing us all if necessary.”

The others, previously disgruntled, now gasped
in surprise and looked at the amiable Pon, whose face had stretched
into a rictus of desperation. Their voices raised in anger and
accusation, focusing their discontent on him.

“You don’t understand,” he protested, eyes
wide. “This is my last chance; my debts to Lord Skissen are too
heavy! If I fail, my family will—”

“All of you shut your teeth!” Bjeski shouted,
her voice echoing in the narrow valley. “Myopic fools, each. Bicker
this much on the mountain and you’ll lose focus and get someone
killed. No, I’ll get the scepter from the ice cave by myself. I
can’t take any more of your half-baked companionship. You all wait
here.”

“Even me?” gulped Pon, eyeing Jann’s and
Bervik’s swords.

Bjeski’s lip curled. The traitor had a point;
she didn’t want him dead at the hands of the others. “No. Pon,
you’re with me. The rest of you, camp here and wait. Don’t let me
find you sneaking up the mountain yourselves. I’ve no problem
stabbing any of you.”