The Dark Ferryman (18 page)

The water cooled about them, as Rivergrace sank onto his chest, gasping for breath. He held her tightly to him. His strong hands went to her hips, pulling her onto him firmly and then caressing her supple flesh to the small of her back, kneading, rocking her on him, his mouth seeking hers before she could gasp again, this time a small moan of remembered passion. And then they were making love, heedless of the confines of the tub and its tepid waters, the crush of petals still floating upon it, their bodies hungry for each other until Sevryn felt he would explode yet held himself back, his hands stroking her, his mouth tasting, loving, and teasing her until she gave a soft cry, shuddering, and a blush raced across her features. He did not hold back then, coming with a muffled shout as he buried his face in the curve of her throat, his hips thrusting himself into her with one last, powerful stroke.

They lay together quietly for a long time, so long that he thought she might have drifted to sleep and he feared to wake her though the tub had become cold and stayed warm only where their bodies pressed together. Her hand stirred on his shoulder, then moved to her ear where she tucked a long, wet strand of hair behind it.

“I cannot stay,” she whispered to his jaw.

He half smiled. “As it must be, then.” He rinsed her slowly, using the heat of his hands to take the chill from the water before he did so, each handful as intimate as the lovemaking they’d just shared. She let him tend to her, kissing each bruise and scrape she’d suffered. He dipped his head over her inner thigh to enjoy the fragrance of her satisfaction before she tugged on his hair in protest and began to climb out of the tub. Laughing, he caught her wrist to help her up and out. His fingers closed about the faded scar of her long-ago slavery and a heat in it drew his surprised gaze. A new scar traced over the old, a wavering line that brought to mind a meandering river, the welt angry purple-red as if newly healed. She took his hand from her wrist quickly as she gathered up a drying sheet to wrap about herself.

“What happened?”

“I cannot say, because I don’t know.” She shivered slightly and moved to the banked fire across the room, gathering her clothes to prepare to dress as she did. First, she dried her hair as best she could as he watched.

A knowing had arced through him, a recognition of the sigil even if she did not. “Grace . . .”

She pulled her boots on last, then crossed to him, wrapping her damp drying sheet about his waist. “It’s only one more scar among others,” she told him. “It’s nothing. I’ll see you in the morning,” and she slipped through the doors before he could say another word.

He would hold his peace for the night, then, while he pondered what he thought he knew because the soul in him had shared captivity with the River Goddess and he had felt Her anger through the flesh, Rivergrace’s body, that She’d branded. Only a fool would refuse to listen when a God tried to speak.

Though she’d wanted nothing more than to tumble into his bed and sleep what was left of the night curved against the strength of his body, she knew she couldn’t stay. It would not do to flaunt her disobedience in front of Lariel.

Rivergrace moved cautiously along the wing and landing, listening for servants or those who moved through the late night shadows. She heard heavy footsteps coming her way and the low thrum of voices growing louder. She could see blurred forms illuminated by sconces lending a low glow on the polished wood walls. She moved quickly into the shadows.

“Field strategy I understand, but this maneuvering between the courts, no. Never mind that she’s sworn her loyalty to you—the lass purified the Andredia when you could not. For that alone, you should grant whatever boon you can to her. What drives you to be contrary, Lara?”

From the huge silhouette overshadowing Lara’s slim form, and from the rumbling bass tones, she knew it could be none other than Osten Lariel spoke with. She bit her lip as she withdrew under the staircase, into an alcove where the banisters joined and turned from one landing to the next, and she prayed the shadows hid her.

“There are as many facets to this as to the great gem of Tomarq. Mostly, however, it comes down to protecting Sevryn in spite of what we may or may not owe Rivergrace. To do so, Grace must be introduced as a Vaelinar, but I can’t in all conscience. She is not Vaelinar as you and I are. There is something in her I don’t recognize, and to embrace her bloodline as one of ours is incautious. I’m caught here, Osten, as friend and leader. Yet, what choice do I have with Sevryn. He’s a half-breed with eyes that reflect that far more than his ears or his bearing even though he draws consideration from the Strongholds and Houses because he serves me, and I value him. They are not quite sure why or what strength he has that I value, but they warily respect that. When he marries, if he marries anyone less than a full-blooded Vaelinar, his children will be regarded as even less than half-breed. But, as you and I have seen time and again, love goes its own way. Denied Rivergrace, if he loves again, it could be anyone. If I lose or pass from power, he and his children will have only their own merits to be weighed upon, and those merits will be judged foremost through their bloodlines.”

“So you would take Rivergrace from him?”

“Or present her as a daughter of impeccable parentage. Yet, we both know she was held as a slave under Quendius, negating her background by that very implication. Quendius is not a fool. He had reasons behind his enslavement that may entangle all of us. She may well be a half-breed herself, though I don’t recognize Kernan in her.”

Steps on the staircase near her slowed. Rivergrace sank farther back into the shadows, pressing her palms against the wall to stop the shaking that had begun throughout her entire body. She stilled her breathing as her heart drummed in her ears.

“We’re not the most prolific of races,” Osten rumbled mildly. “The Dwellers and Bolgers populate these lands easily. We are the shyest of breeders. Only the Galdarkans have as few issue as we do.” He paused. “You’re not hinting she could be a cross with Galdarkan lines? I’ve never heard of children from such a pairing. Impossible, I thought.”

“Perhaps all but impossible until now. I don’t know, I don’t want to speculate, but I must. I have to consider Rivergrace’s well-being. We owe her, yes. But at what price? If there is Galdarkan in her, then I have to account for the Mageborn and their twist of bloodlines and what magic they might have wrought upon them. The Galdarkans sprang from matings between the Mageborn and the very Gods of Kerith themselves, tales tell. Do I discount that? In my own experience, yes.” Lara gave a soft snort. “But this is not our mother world or our own Gods, so perhaps . . . yes, perhaps stranger things have happened.”

“Bah. You talk like an archer aiming at a charge. Where to fire, so many targets . . . and while you hesitate, you’re overrun.”

Osten gave a soft grunt as if Lara had elbowed him for that remark.

“What I do, for now, is keep them apart, and delay her introduction. Once I introduce her and acknowledge their betrothal, I’ve given my validation and that, I cannot give. Not now, not yet.”

Rivergrace listened to the floorboards creak as they moved away from her, with Osten’s muted thunder of a voice rumbling still, though she couldn’t decipher his words. She stayed there until they were gone, quite gone from her, and then stood longer till the trembling had left her body. When she moved out of the shadows, her feet carried her down one path while her thoughts raced down another.

Before the night draped so deeply about the manor of Larandaril that it would curtain it away from the rest of the world, Nutmeg came from the rooms she shared with Rivergrace, drying her hands on her skirts and tucking her hair behind her shoulders. She placed her letter in the downstairs box for the postal rider and listened to the soft murmur of the servants as they retreated to their own rooms behind the main staircases. They spoke candidly of the queen and her brother, of the archers who’d fallen and the injured troopers and their families, as well as gossip among themselves. Because they were used to her bustling behind the scenes—had she not just been drawing baths in both Rivergrace’s quarters and Sevryn’s?—they thought of her as one of themselves, rather than a guest. They did not seem to notice or care that she overheard. It was one of the few advantages of being a Dweller amid so many Vaelinar and Kernan. She was seldom mistaken for a royal guest. Thus it was she heard that Jeredon had refused to come in for the night.

Trying not to frown, she made her way downstairs and to the main doors. She paused, hand on the latch, then changed her mind altogether. Retracing her steps, she went roundabout through the kitchen and out the back toward the gardens and the laundries. Chill came in as she opened the door, making her wish she’d brought her cloak out with her. She chided herself in place of her mother Lily. It was winter or nearly so, with the first snowfall not far away. Up north, the trader caravans already struggled through ice and sleet and passes closing with sudden storms. She ought to know that.

Nutmeg crossed the stepping stones placed for longer strides. She could smell the stringent scent of the soaping racks and laundry tubs around the corner of the building, but she did not head that way. She turned, instead, toward the gardens, where stepping stones became a graveled pathway. Against a line of tall shrubs, she saw the profile she expected.

She quashed the chastisements which rose in her. He was a grown man, and indeed, as Vaelinars lived, Jeredon probably had seen more seasons than Tolby, Lily, and she all put together. He was not heedless of taking care of himself, only that he put the needs of Lariel and others first, disliking the fuss that his injury caused. He heard her approach, no matter how cautiously she walked, darn those tipped Vaelinar ears. He turned his head ever so slightly.

“Come out to chide me?”

“No.” She folded her hands in her apron, seeking a little warmth. “Only to make sure that you’re all right.”

“We have dead.”

“We die every day, all over Kerith. It is only you Vaelinars who do not die so often.”

A dry chuckle. “A valid point. Still, I trained men who did not survive their encounter with the enemy. I failed them.” He knotted the hand he had resting on his thigh.

“And there will be more who’ll die if Lara takes us to war, and it won’t be your fault. My da always said that if you shake the apple tree, you’d better be prepared to have fruit, good and rotten, fall on your head.”

“My sister does things for reasons she doesn’t always explain. She sees things, I hope, that we can’t.”

“Her magic?”

“Maybe. Maybe it’s just her training and instincts. My grandfather trained her to be a warrior. I trained to be a forester and a hunter. I can teach archers, but I can’t instill battle into them. She wants me to teach more, as if being able to use a bow and arrow will be enough.”

“Remember my mother’s tailoring shop? There are those who spin thread. Those who weave it into patterned cloth. And, then there are those who take that cloth and cut and tailor it into dresses, curtains, cloaks, sashes. Are you asking me to measure their worth? Each depends on the other, don’t you think?”

“Are Dwellers always so down to earth?”

“Whenever we’re not in a tree.” Nutmeg hugged herself against a touch of wind that reached her despite the grove that sheltered the gardens. “I came to tell you to come in.”

“Thank you. I will, soon.” Jeredon turned his head to face her for the first time since they’d begun exchanging words. “There will be many of us together again, soon.”

Nutmeg thought of the convening of Vaelinars she’d observed in Calcort, to discuss their treaties and differences, and to hear petitions from those of Kerith who had been wronged or displaced, or thought they had been, by the arrival of the invaders. Those days, and the blazing hot summer, and her family’s new beginning in a city rather than the far-flung orchards of her youth, seemed far behind. There were many of the Vaelinars she did not particularly care for. She’d seen many of the noblewomen who’d come to her mother’s small tailoring shop. They’d been grateful for the trade, and while the Vaelinars did not have the inbred arrogance of the Galdarkans, sometimes they had been shrewish or sly. There was something about them a practical Dweller did not wish to trust.