The Dark Ferryman (22 page)

Quendius flexed his arm thoughtfully before presenting it to Narskap. They both knew that if Narskap and his knife slipped but a notch, he would be dead before Quendius bled out, a left-handed dagger through his eye. He did not hold it, but he didn’t have to, it rested in his wrist sheath and it would spring into his hand the moment he needed it. They had a mutual respect for one another’s abilities, but also Quendius believed in not trusting anyone. Narskap washed his instrument in some tolerably good liquor that he poured from the jug, and he poured a shot over Quendius’ proffered arm as well. Then, quickly, he sliced into the blue-veined surface to bring blood gushing to the fore and twisted the arm in his hold to let the crimson splash over the bow, shaft and arrowheads lying in wait upon the table. Then he took a clean rag and knotted it quickly about Quendius’ wound.

Without another word, he squatted by the low table and began to make the arrows. Quendius waited a long moment before saying, “That was it?”

Frowning, Narskap looked up. “Did you expect more? Shall I bring a Bolger shaman in here to grunt and shake things about and burn odious herbs?”

“I only wondered if your Gods needed a bit more ceremony.”

“Ceremony.” Narskap rolled the word about his mouth as he said it. “No. The only thing they require of you is a taste.” He returned his attention to the shaft in his hand, fletching the flights to it with quick and sure movements.

“Basic creatures, the Gods are.”

“They know what you are, and what you are not,” Narskap said, his tone now absent, his attention upon the arrow he crafted. “And through them, I know.” His gaze flickered up, eyes intent again. “I know that you are not wholly Vaelinar.”

Quendius shifted his weight. He had killed men for thinking far less than that, and he sifted through the options in his mind as they fell like sand through a primitive timepiece. Narskap had looked away again, immersed in his work by the time he’d reached a decision. He did not trust Narskap more than he trusted any other man, for Quendius trusted no one at all, but he knew his tools, and Narskap was the best he’d ever used. One did not break or allow a tool to rust needlessly. The wind picked up outside and whistled inside in a thin, faint piping. The work would be done shortly, the glue dried and the string wound tightly, and then the bow itself must be strung. He wondered if Narskap would do it or summon him again. He wasn’t sure if Narskap still had the strength needed to bend the longbow into accepting the stringing. It would be in tune with the irony he felt: that the Gods had given Narskap the ability to make a weapon he could not use, just as they had given him knowledge that he did not wish. Quendius balled his hand into a fist. He had known for years what he was not, but never what he
was
. Good tools were difficult to replace. The thought stayed his action.

Quendius turned abruptly and left the tower. He had other tools in place that were far less worthy, and he decided to consult one now, knowing that this tool would be broken, and soon.

She barely turned her head as he entered her quarters. She would have heard him, of course, for the lock was not a subtle one and rattled quite a bit whenever he opened it. She sat at a window, at a writing desk which he had wrought himself in his younger days as a woodworker, her elaborate dress in folds about her, the weak sun illuminating her coppery skin. Her pause in giving him her elegant attention was long, and deliberate, her slender fingers poised on a pen as she made notes or perhaps she was sketching something from the elongated window. Bold, to sketch in ink, but then Tiiva Pantoreth made few mistakes and was disinclined to eradicate the ones she did make, for to do so would be to admit them. She had been Abayan Diort’s, but when her fortunes in Larandaril fell, she came to Quendius. He had few delusions about why. She had not explained herself, but he took it as an action he would have committed. Find the strongest and ally yourself there. He let her stay but warily. She had, after all, betrayed both Lariel and Diort. He had no illusions about her either. He did, however, have uses for her.

“You were seneschal for Lariel for many years, and I have a need to know how to move in and out of the manor house with as little detection as possible.”

Her hand put the pen aside, and as she swung more of her body about to face him, he saw three quarters of her profile with one shapely brow arched. “If one can penetrate the living borders of Larandaril, I could perhaps show you the shadows of the manor. However . . .”

“You doubt I can breach the border.”

She shrugged.

“If I’m not worried, you shouldn’t be. I want you to sketch entrances and exits of the building itself for me, the likelihood they will be guarded or warded, and how. I want to be ready when I get there.”

“Lariel.”

“Who else?”

Another lift and dip of her shoulder, the materials of her dress rustling as she did so. “It would be a mistake to think that killing her would stop the war.”

“Oh, I don’t want to stop it. I want to ensure it.”

Her mouth quirked. “That may well do it, then. All right. It will take me a mark or so to finish it.” She turned back around, pushing the paper that she had been working upon out of the way and drawing clean sheets out of a small pile at the desk’s corner. Here in the outlands, paper was a valuable commodity, but Tiiva had always had all she wanted. She, in herself, had been a valuable commodity.

Quendius thought of waiting, then thought better of it and left.

EDGES OF A NIGHT still purple hung about the fortress walls of the ild Fallyn, but they did not blanket the sleeping. Tressandre stood, then paced, herwild hon ey-c olo red hair tangled about her shoulders and down her back, the illumination of smoldering torches bringing alive the highlights of her eyes. The verdant green of her eye coloring increased in the shadows, rendering the lighter streaks of spring green almost unseeable. She twirled a short spear in her hands, the sinews of her wrists tight and strong as she did so, the lines of her body slender and yet taut, expressing her impatience as well as her energy. About to step into the courtyard, her brother halted, the look in her eyes stopping him. She pivoted, her back to him as she passed. Beyond her, straw targets had been all but destroyed and other stains lay pooled on the ground, dried and yet still pungent. He did not like to face his sister in one of these moods, but he had little choice. Alton knew she undoubtedly waited for him, and it would be better to greet her when they were alone rather than have her catch him in front of the troops. Unless she had changed her mind and was going with him after all. . . .

He stepped into the courtyard. “Early,” he said. “Even for you.”

“The world doesn’t stop changing just because I have slept in.” She halted, planting the butt of the spear between her booted feet, her fingers wrapped just underneath its sharp point.

“Nor does it because you haven’t.”

She stamped her spear, and her lips thinned.

“Joining me, then?” He pulled his riding gloves from his belt and pulled them on.

“No. I’m taking a small contingent to the heart of Larandaril. She’ll have to open the borders for me.”

His brow went up, the one with the small scar, nicked by a dagger held by Tressandre when they were much younger but just as deadly. “To what purpose?”

“An innocent one, I assure you. Healers for Jeredon’s sake. A hope of meeting this new Vaelinar who serves our queen, the half-breed or whatever she is who created such a fuss last fall. And I will take two hands of archers, as a show of our good faith as well as the forces you take to the muster.”

Alton leaned a shoulder against the courtyard arena wall. “Very politic of you. I thought Lariel had refused services of our healers, saying they weren’t necessary.”

“She has, and they may well not be. Jeredon is still struggling with paralysis and weakness although word has it he improves steadily.” Tressandre lifted her spear and began to rotate it again.

“You think they hide something?”

“No. I do think, however,” and she looked at him from under a fall of blonde and silvery hair, “that there is more than one way to gain the title of Warrior Queen.”

Alton said flatly, “Jeredon.”

“He is her heir.”

“And if you cannot best her, I have no doubt you can defeat him.”

“In so many words, yes.” The spear stopped in her hands, and she gestured to the walls.

“I thought you had your hooks into Sevryn.”

She turned away for a moment, giving him a view of her flawless profile. “He is a half-breed. I would never be satisfied with such, although he had his purposes.”

“He serves the queen well.”

“As he served me, but there is more than service, Alton. There is fulfillment. Are you satisfied with our austere northern domain, Brother? We have timber, yes, and furs, yes, and our fine horses run the open pastures when the seasons allow, but we are fenced in by our relative poverty, and that is no accident that we live where and how we must, and—”

“Larandaril is the summer kingdom,” he finished for her.

“Indeed, it is. Then there is Drebukar, which bordered her mountains on the west, the mines of which produced, among other gems, the great stone which became the Shield of Tomarq. Although its like may never be seen again, we know that gemstones and fine metals built the treasuries of both the Drebukars and those of Larandaril.”

“And they won’t share.”

Tressandre smiled slowly. “Those mountains now lie fallow, but we both know that mines can play out or become too dangerous to work, or that treaties may be made, which say too much of a good thing can flood a market and make it worthless.”

“Tsk. A conspiracy to control the gemstone trade? Who would dare such a thing?”

Tressandre’s hands whipped about, and Alton found himself with the spearhead digging into his sternum.

“Do. Not. Mock. Me.”

He moved the point away. “Never, Sister. I know the whip that drives us both.” He inhaled deeply. “Old tales say a new Way being laid down that ridge of mountains exploded out of control and destroyed part of the House of Drebukar, which is why it now aligns with Istlanthir, and that to set foot on those ridges or into those mines means a death which is neither painless nor instant. Thoughts of those mines were put away decades ago. Building a Way has never been easy . . . nor the methods for doing so shared. If you were to go a-hunting in those mountains, we might lose the true treasure of the ild Fallyns.” He watched as his sister shifted her weight and tilted her head slightly to eye him.

“Now you attempt to dissuade me by flattery.”

“I only tell the ruthless truth of ild Fallyn Stronghold. You were meant to rule. It would be sweet to gain power, but we both know it won’t come by riches alone.”

“No, which is why a war is so . . . desirable . . . right now.” Her smoky voice lingered over that word in a way that sent a shiver down the back of his neck. “Many things can be accomplished under its cover.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. Take our forces as planned and head to the muster. We are under suspicion and likely to remain that way, so it’s best that you stay in her eye as much as you can. While I do what I can.” And the corner of Tressandre’s mouth quirked slightly.

“You will think to keep me advised from time to time?”

“Brother. Do you think I would not share with you?” She stepped close to him, very close, her warm breath grazing his cheek as she spoke. “As I share all things with you?”

“As painful as that sharing can be,” he returned, and turned his mouth to meet hers for a long, full moment, savoring the touch of her lips and taste of her mouth.

She broke away first. “Pain is what gives us joy later.”

Alton watched as she turned her attention to what remained of the straw targets, her body barely concealed beneath the minimum of body armor she wore, and the gauzy scrap of a blouse that hid nothing and promised more. He put the tip of his tongue to his lips to remember the taste of her before crossing the courtyard to the gate, and into the dawn where their forces waited with horse and wagon for him to lead them. He had no doubts whatsoever in his mind about who led him.

Sevryn woke as he usually did, instantly alert and aware with all touches of whatever he had been dreaming shredding away from him immediately. He sat on the side of the bed, feeling the early chill of the morning dance along his bare skin as the warmth of the covers bled away. He ran the flat of his palm over his stomach and trailed his fingertips over his rib cage. Grace was not a healer in any traditional sense, whether a Vaelinar one or an alchemist of Kerith. Her touch was a soothing balm that cleansed and washed away the wounds it found. Her presence could work its way deeper and deeper, layering through the hurt until all was cleansed and mended, the way water worked its way through stone, slowly and inexorably. She seemed almost unaware of her touch and its effect, for her calling was not that of a healer but that of water, and whatever way it might enrich and soothe, it did. Their togetherness in the night had bled the last of the kedant and its antidote from him, and worried out the knots of bruises and wounds, and even the scarring had faded to near nothingness in the bare light of dawn that filtered in through his shuttered window. Sevryn touched his flank again, where he’d been scored deeply, and found it only slightly tender, the flesh pinkish but seamless as though he had barely been wounded at all.

He had fallen asleep, determined to seek out Daravan this morning before that one slipped away into the shadows he favored. He had told no one yet of the meeting with Quendius, and now his resolve faltered. He had been filled with kedant after the melee, and antidote or not, he knew its fever had racked him. Had he seen Quendius, or had it been only a venom-riddled dream as his body fought off the effects of what he’d been through? His body no longer held the mark of fangs if it had ever held them . . . he had been healed too well. The most he could relate would be a vision of anxiety and threat, a paranoia that Daravan could not take for anything more. Had he seen and spoken with the villain, or had he not? He no longer knew.