The Dark Ferryman (51 page)

She took a deep breath. Nutmeg whispered, “Are you all right? I . . . I forgot how you hate this.”

“I’m all right. Just . . . waiting.” She leaned her head back against a cupboard or a wall, she couldn’t be sure which although she knew it was wooden, and then she thought she heard something. “Meg.”

“What?”

“I think I hear footsteps.”

“Probably the cooks and maids getting food out to the tables,” said Nutmeg with just a touch of sulkiness to her voice.

The footfalls grew closer and heavier. Rivergrace got to her feet, trying to straighten out her riding skirts and dust herself off. “Soldiers,” she and Nutmeg noted together.

The door opened abruptly for all that they knew it was going to, and Nutmeg jumped a little at Grace’s elbow. They both squinted at the gray morning light as it flooded in, silhouetting bodies standing in the doorway.

“Have you come to execute us?” Nutmeg asked.

“Not yet, little one, but the morning has just begun.” As a guardsman took Nutmeg and pulled her out of the room, Rivergrace followed, trying to see who had come for them. The guard she knew only well enough to nod at, but his stern face showed no warming.

“What have we done?”

None of them answered her, nor did they seem as if they would. Head down, thinking, she followed. If Sevryn, or anyone else, had revealed his suspicions of her parentage, would the queen have reacted this way? She did not know Lariel well enough to guess. But had she led them false in any way? She could not think. She knew she had to, to muster some sort of understanding and perhaps even a defense but her thoughts flew about in her head like a wild bird which had gotten itself caged. She thought of her beloved alna birds, fisher birds on the freshwater rivers, particularly her home river the Silverwing, and that thought gave her a moment of calm. She would not know what she faced until she faced it, and it would be useless to fear it until then. If only she could fly as free as one of her alna! Yet, she could think of nowhere she might go other than to Sevryn or back to Tolby and Lily. What kind of coward was she? She walked beside a man and guards who were readying for war, who had already suffered loss beyond imagining, and she had to think beyond herself. She had to protect Nutmeg, if she could, and still see the truth through because she must trust herself, if no one else. Fire and water fought within her. She felt as if she were a weapon being forged and tempered between the two elements.

Rivergrace put her head back and straightened her shoulders and lengthened her stride, so the others found themselves hurrying to keep up with her. The guards paused in the hallway as Tranta Istlanthir lifted a weary hand to stop them and they stood aside. Solemn lines marked his face and dark circles bruised his eyes. He looked as if it took great effort for him to stay on his feet.

“Tranta!” she said anyway, feeling some joy to see a friend. She looked behind him for Sevryn and, not seeing him, returned her gaze to Tranta.

“The queen forbid his coming,” Istlanthir told her. “He is well enough, except for that bump Bistane gave him. You’ll see him later.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

“There is little I can say. We aren’t friends here, Rivergrace, under Lara’s orders. There are grave matters to be decided and nothing more I can tell you than that. We’re to take you out to use the conveniences, see that you are fed, and then you will be brought to trial.”

“Thank the lucky stars for
that,
” Nutmeg exulted. She hurried past the guardsmen showing her the way through the crowded storage cellar up to the kitchen stairs. Rivergrace made to follow, but Tranta stopped her with one hand lightly on her shoulder. Nutmeg kept up a bright chatter, all the more she thought, so that she and Tranta could speak quietly without being overheard.

“I need to ask you something, though Her Highness was explicit I keep silent. But this I must do.” The sunlight from a high window did not illuminate his face kindly, but rather sharpened the shadow and sadness upon it. He looked as if he had aged decades since the last time she’d seen him and, although she knew it could be like that for Vaelinar, he was too young to have it happen to him.

“I’ll answer if I can. What is it?”

“What do you know of Kever?”

“Once, I would have said he is the more handsome of the Istlanthir brothers, but this doesn’t seem like the time to joke.”

“No.” He shook his head slowly. “He is gone, missing from his post at the Jewel of Tomarq. Sevryn tells me his sources say that he is dead, but there is no body to know for sure.”

“Oh, Tranta.” She could understand now the sorrow that rippled through him. Rivergrace tripped, and it was only Tranta’s hold that kept her steady. Her voice, though, she could not keep from quavering in her shock. “Gone? Did he fall from the cliff? If there’s no body, Sevryn could be wrong, couldn’t he? There’s a chance, isn’t there?”

“I trust Sevryn with my life. Do you?”

Without hesitation, she answered, “Yes.”

Tranta wavered. He closed his eyes and then swallowed, a hard, tight noise. He opened his eyes to look down upon her. “Then I must trust him with my brother’s death.”

She said nothing more after searching his face and seeing the resolution there. He had given up hope for Kever, based on his trust in Sevryn and Sevryn’s word. So much given up for something so . . . frail. Yet she understood, because if her love had told her much the same thing, she would believe in him. Still, to give up another’s life . . .

Tranta removed his hand from her shoulder. “I can’t say any more to you until the trial convenes, and even then, there may not be anything I can say. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

She shook her head slowly as they trailed after Nutmeg and the guardsmen. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“You will soon enough.” He rubbed his eyes, eyes the color of many seas and storms, wearily. “I have to warn you, the evidence is compelling.”

“But of what? What have I done?”

“High treason,” he said, then shut his mouth firmly. The muscles in his jaws moved, and she knew he would not say another word, as he had told her would happen.

Tiforan knelt behind the Bolger’s crouching form, intent on the outbuildings in the heart of Larandaril. He had to admit that Rufus had brought them far closer, and more easily, than he would have deemed possible. It helped that much of the guard power of the estate was gone, mustered for the war, but it did not help that the troopers remaining behind seemed to be Queen Lariel’s elite. He could only wonder why the queen had not yet left for battle and why she tarried, but it served his purpose to know that the prize Diort had sent him for remained at hand. He knew the troops had already skirmished. More than that, his warlord had not revealed to him. Diort would not send word of victory based on an initial testing of their forces; he was far too canny a soldier for that. As for the queen, Tiforan could only suppose that she had boats ready to ferry her up the Ashenbrook, the only weak spot he could see in the battlefield as described to him by his commander and the scouting maps. Such a maneuver might get her there within a handful of days. He would send word, as soon as he completed his mission and got clear of Larandaril, to warn Diort of the coming of the elite force. If they still moved after the chaos Tiforan planned to cause.

“What do you think?”

Rufus made a noise deep in his throat. “They gather,” he rasped.

“I know they gather, they’re readying to move out.” Tiforan’s impatience colored his words heavily.

Rufus turned his head slowly to look back at him over his shoulder. The Bolger jabbed a thumb at the second floor of the building. “They gather.”

Tiforan narrowed his gaze and then saw the numbers of Vaelinars, barely visible through narrow, high windows, coming into what must be a room large enough to encompass much of that second floor’s wing. “Why,” he muttered, not expecting an answer and not getting one except for a shrug from Rufus.

“We go.” Rufus got to his feet and began to shamble closer to the main manor, Lyat at his heels. Tiforan waited only a moment to weigh the dangers of such a movement before getting to his feet and following after. Rufus had shown an innate instinct for Larandaril as well as what Tiforan thought to be a knowledge of the valley kingdom. It could not be luck which made Diort assign the obstinate Bolger to his mission.

Nor did he think it was luck when the Bolger shouldered open a small, stubborn door near the laundry works, and led them inside. Webs hung down from the narrow corridor’s ceiling, and the air smelled heavily of smoke and soap. It seemed to be a fire door, advisable for the many lit cauldrons of the laundry, and no one had used it for many a year, if ever, yet it opened when Rufus put his heavy-shouldered weight to it, and Tiforan found himself on the verge of acquiring the prize his king and warlord desired. The nearness of victory on a mission both he and Diort had deemed near impossible lay so close he could taste it. He moved into the bowels of the manor, close on the Bolger’s heels.

Nutmeg was still dusting crumbs from a hasty sandwich off her cheeks and her clothing as the guards ushered the two of them into a vast room which Rivergrace had never been in before, although she knew it was a ballroom for gatherings the Warrior Queen had never held in the few seasons Grace had been by her side. Vaelinars lined it now, but not in the costumes of celebration. They wore their field gear, their leathers and silks and armor, and she could see the scars upon the leathers and the pounded-out and repaired dents on the breastplates and the helms they carried tucked under their arms, and the harnesses upon their torsos held weapons stowed. The armor glinted as a gray sunlight slanted through the narrow, arched panes of the windows, but they were not ceremonial and they showed the brunt of warfare.

Tranta rubbed his eyes, eyes the color of many seas and storms, wearily. Solemn expressions rode faces as those assembled turned to watch Rivergrace enter. Tranta left them, as he had warned her he would, and went to Lariel’s side.

Grace could not decipher Lara’s gaze as their eyes met across the room. This was not the friend who had defended her upon the mountain ridges as they rode to the font of the Andredia River, nor the woman who had worked a magic of her own and cut off a finger to do so, and not even the Warrior Queen whose life they had saved at the Midsummer Council. This was a ruler and one whose friendship could not be claimed by Rivergrace. An arm’s length away stood Sevryn and Bistane. She could not mistake the look on Sevryn’s face.

His lips moved slightly and she heard, clear across the wide room, his Voice sent to her and her alone by the talent he had honed: “Whatever happens, do not lie. I will be here for you, aderro.”

Lara shot him a sharp look as if she could hear him, and his only response was to step backward, Bistane putting his chin up alertly.

The guards left them standing at the room’s center. The wooden floor, richly waxed, creaked slightly as Nutmeg moved closer to her. She could feel heated indignation rolling off Nutmeg.

“As queen of the lands of the valley known as Larandaril, I hereby convene this trial and court-martial of the woman known as Rivergrace, held and placed under charges of high treason. The Dweller known as Nutmeg Farbranch is of no consequence in these proceedings and should be removed.” Lara began to lift a hand.

Nutmeg boiled over. “I won’t be leaving my sister.”

“You have no right to stay.”

“I’m of no consequence! No consequence! Who are you, Lariel Anderieon to tell me I don’t matter? No right? These lands were ours long before you came here, and they’ll be ours again long after you leave. So if there’s any authority in this room at all, it’s mine!” She took a gulping breath before rushing on.

“If you think to try Rivergrace without me, then you’ll need to go to the courts of the Gods themselves,” declared Nutmeg, pulling herself to stand as tall as she could among those who towered over her. She flung her hand to gesture at them, light bursting from her fingertips and showering down on the assembly in a curtain of sparks that danced and bounced upon the marble floor as they hit and fell into dimness. Her mouth gaped open a moment in surprise, then clapped shut.

Tranta bent close to Sevryn, his blue hair sweeping along his shoulder, veiling his mouth as he commented dryly, “Pardon the theatrics, but I deemed her words deserved them.”

And Nutmeg crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at any who might take another step closer to her. Lara paused, her gaze sweeping over the assembly as if weighing their reaction, and then her mouth quirked slightly.

“Are you prepared to face whatever decision may be found and punishment dealt out?”

“She’s my sister. That means share and share alike.”

“So be it, then.” She nodded toward the only person in the room sitting, papers and writing instrument at hand at a small desk behind her. “And so note it.” She glanced at Tranta. “May it also be noted that the use of magic and Talents in this room is, for the duration of the trial, prohibited? This will be for the benefit of all.”

Rivergrace felt a small lessening of tension drain from her neck and shoulders as she heard Lara’s proclamation and Nutmeg made a small sound of satisfaction.

“In addition, there will be no admissible statements allowed from any who are not full-blooded Vaelinar.”

Sevryn’s head jerked about. “What?”

“It is the rule of this court.”

“Don’t do this, Lariel. Don’t cut me out.”

She did not look at Sevryn though his eyes must have bored hotly into her. “These are not my rules, these are the rules of those who came before us, and knew what they did.”

“This is not justice, then.”

“Sometimes truth has little to do with justice. If you cannot hold your silence, you’ll be removed. Bistane?”

A very long pause before Bistane answered reluctantly, “As you wish, Your Highness.”