Treason's Shore (67 page)

Tdor stood to one side, her emotions swooping and diving. A step at her shoulder brought her attention up. She was startled to discover Evred there.

Signi looked over Inda’s shoulders, straight into Evred’s eyes. This was no inscrutable mage, hiding behind her dance gestures. She looked older, and thinner, and frail, somehow, and her expression below a white scar on her forehead was troubled. He gazed back, perplexed.

How many kinds of love are there?
Tdor thought.
Love is all around us, free as the air. Like trust, you have to give it before you can expect it back
. Her heart filled with the joy of Inda’s happiness.

Evred said to Signi, “Welcome.”

The tension smoothed from Signi’s brow, but not the pain; Tdor and Evred realized that the puckers were lines formed there since they had seen the Venn dag last.

Signi knew what it meant for Evred to come all this way himself, instead of ordering her summoned to him. “Thank you, Harvaldar-Dal.”

“I have received reports that your countrymen enter the strait,” Evred said. “I ask only if they are on their way here.”

Signi bowed her head. “I am an outcast, an exile. But I believe they sail down the strait to the east. And I am not to remain here: I await orders to carry on with the old plan, to give our navigation to Sartor. That way must be cleared by others first.”

Evred opened his hand, and Tdor said, “Come on in, let’s get you settled. It’s almost time for Restday drum, and then a good, hot supper. We kept it waiting against the rain yonder.”

Once Restday drum was over, the three of them ate alone in the Harskialdna suite. Evred sent a Runner to say that he would dine with Hadand.

At first Inda was as happy as Tdor had ever seen him, but that heedless cheer did not last. The dinner conversation was awkward, Inda’s questions resulting in soft, smiling answers of “It can wait,” after which Signi asked after people she knew. But those being few, she ran out quickly. Tdor hated her own stupid comments about weather, crops—inane questions, as she fumbled to fill the silences she could not account for. Signi’s accent was strong again, making it difficult for Tdor to understand her.

The meal ended at last, Tdor thinking wistfully of those easy days around the campfire after they left Tenthen almost four years before. Remembering how gracefully Signi had left Inda to Tdor on her wedding, and on their first day of travel, Tdor excused herself to go visit Hadand. Maybe the two of them would be more comfortable if they had time alone.

“Signi is back,” Tdor told Hadand, whom she found lying down in her bedchamber, her stomach too unsettled for her usual long day of work.

Hadand’s eyes widened. “Inda’s happy?”

“Well, he was at first. But just before I left, he was doing this.” Tdor mimicked the distinctive grimace Inda gave when something was wrong.

A quiet knock they both recognized caused Tdor to get up again. Evred entered, followed by a pair of Runners bringing dinner himself and a pot of steeped ginger root for Hadand.

Tdor left them and walked slowly back to the Harskialdna chamber, wondering what the other two had decided about sleeping arrangements. She was surprised to find Inda lurking inside the main room.

“I was about to come looking for you,” he said in a rumbling not-quite-whisper. “She’s down at the baths. Tdor, I don’t know what to do. There’s . . . her voice.” Inda grimaced. “I don’t know how to explain it. There’s
pain
in her words. It wasn’t there before. It gripes me.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Did she say what delayed her?”

“Not really. Just she can’t do magic anymore. She didn’t say why, or where she went when she vanished from the south. Just said, ‘It can wait.’ ”

“I thought that meant wait until I was out of the room.”

Inda rubbed his hands up his face and over his head. “No, she never does things like that. I think it means she just doesn’t want to talk about whatever happened. That change in her voice—she kept those gloves on, did you notice? Something happened.” Inda’s eyes narrowed, then he turned away, staring sightlessly at the wall. Tdor waited, and when he turned back, he said, “What should I do?”

“Hold her,” Tdor said, pressing her forehead against his, until she felt his brow untense. “If she’s in pain, then hold her. Love her. Everything else will sort itself out.”

Chapter Five

T
HE year 3919 was called “The Year Without a Spring” until forty-four years later, when the Great Frost peaked the cycle of long, cold winters.

On land that year, when the sky finally cleared, those most observant kept part of their seed stock in reserve, despite the unconscionably late melt. They better withstood the destructive effects of the last (and most ferocious) winter blizzard that howled out of the east a month later, leaving the land abruptly steaming in summer.

On the seas, the customary spring fogs and rain as the wind and currents made their spiraling shift were replaced by spectacular thunderstorms. The Venn fleet (and after them, the cautious sea trade) sailed when at last they saw two days of clear sky in a row.

Those with long experience of the strait watched the skies with deep suspicion. They knew that an appearance of sudden summer usually brought on typhoons like those that often struck the vast oceans between western Goerael and eastern Drael.

The sun was a month short of midsummer when the Venn fleet reached Llyenthur’s main harbor.

Oneli Stalna Hyarl Durasnir stood at the open scuttle as he wrestled his baldric over his armor. He nibbled like a rabbit, testing the air with his front teeth. When he was a teenage ensign, he and his group once decided they’d emulate their ancestors by clenching a knife in their teeth during battle. They began with fighting drill. Durasnir didn’t need more than a day to really hate the distinctive grit of metal against tooth enamel. Because they were young idiots, no one would admit what a spectacularly bad idea it was, and it had taken the inevitable sanguine disaster to end the experiment.

Ever since then, he defined that quality in the air before an oncoming storm as knife-in-the-teeth. The hot, still summer air tasted metallic, though not a cloud was visible anywhere in the strait, or northward above the uneven jut of low mountains inland of Llyenthur Harbor.

He adjusted the baldric and its knotted hangings before sliding his sword into the loops. The last sword fight he’d engaged in was right here in Llyenthur, decades ago.

He stepped out of the small cabin into the wardroom, where his ensigns waited with the rest of his gear. He lifted his arm so his ensign could affix his arm torcs. No embroidered ones for this interview, but the real ones, uncomfortable as they were. He had never believed his ancestors actually wore the things to fight in. His armor was polished mirror bright, his helm as well, the wings newly lacquered.

When he was satisfied with his appearance, he reported to the cabin, as required. Under the pretence that the king commanded this venture, Erkric not only read every order but must be apprised of all comings and goings. When approaching the doors to what had been his cabin for years, Durasnir always reminded himself of his promise to his wife. The war was going to happen. It was his job to limit the cost to the Venn.

The Erama Krona before the door silently parted. One guard permitted entrance to the outer, public chamber, where Durasnir’s great table still sat. Rajnir sat in a kind of throne behind the chart table, strong sunlight through the stern windows highlighting the king’s long pale hair, but otherwise throwing him into silhouette.

Durasnir made his obeisance to that shadowy figure. “My king, I depart to the parley. I also wish to advise you to order the fleet to make sea room. In my experience—”

“Yes, Oneli Stalna Commander.” Erkric used the strictly formal mode, without the “my.” “We’ve had a nine of messages about storms so far today. As there are no clouds to be seen in all directions, we
can
keep watch over the inner islands and the estuary. The king has not changed his orders.”

Durasnir once more made his obeisance, an empty gesture toward an empty vessel. He effaced himself, bypassing the silent guardians in white. No one ever addressed the Erama Krona. As for the Yaga Krona, he and Dag Ulaffa interacted as little as necessary in public.

Durasnir climbed down into the longboat. The light reflecting off metal and water was peculiarly penetrating, a white glare that seemed to dart through his eyes to the back of his head. He would have a kraken sized headache by nightfall, he thought sourly as he peered through his glass toward the shore, where the parley flags hung limp in the still air above the harbormaster’s tower.

As the crew lifted their oars on signal, Durasnir settled back, eyes closed against the winking glare off the choppy waves. A restless sea in still air that now tasted of rust.

His head panged. At least he could conduct this parley without the presence of that young idiot Dyalf Balandir. Erkric could not blame anyone else for the stupidity of his candidate for Battlegroup Chief, who should never have been made a captain. As the boat surged through the water, Durasnir thought back to the previous month, when they’d finally closed in on Granthan.

The small harbor at Llyenthur’s western end had put up only a semblance of resistance. What could be anyone’s motivation for what seemed afterward outright madness? Perhaps it was frustration at being balked of battle glory that caused Battlegroup Captain Hyarl Balandir to board a fisher with a band of nine of his personal guard without waiting for the Drenga.

Only someone whose desire for glory outweighed sense and experience could have failed to see how very poorly that “fisher” had disguised its habitual trade as a pirate.

Though Balandir would recover, it would take a while for the broken bones to knit. It was still impossible to know if the healers could repair his eye. As well the pirates had been taking their time about their fun; they hadn’t begun on the second eye when the Drenga caught up.

The pirates were long dead and their ship burned before Durasnir arrived on inspection. No pirates left to question, leaving him puzzling over that peculiarity about eyes. Pirate tortures had been far too common in the bad days, including breaking the major bones of a commander and leaving him to die. But the knife games with eyes appeared to indicate deliberate intent.

The longboat crew rowed back under
Petrel
’s lee. Battlegroup Chief Seigmad climbed down.

Safe on the wrong side of the ship from
Cormorant
and Erkric’s vigilant spyglass, Durasnir permitted himself a brief smile.

Seigmad settled next to Durasnir in the stern sheets and raised his glass.

As the longboat skimmed into the calmer waters of the inner harbor, the two commanders appraised the fleet lined up across the horizon, ready on signal to comb through the islands. They’d had to tack and tack again out in the strait for four weeks, waiting on a shift in the wind. Durasnir knew they’d lost any hope of surprise. Perhaps the weeks of dread would better serve them.

The
drakans
bobbed gently on the water, 324 warships plus his
Cormorant,
all stripped to fighting sail, the occasional wink and gleam of sun on steel from the rails and the mastheads. Beyond them, rank on rank dotting the horizon, the masts of the raiders. It was a daunting sight—one could be forgiven for surrendering without a strike to such a force.

“Everyone exactly on station,” Seigmad said with satisfaction, then scowled skyward. “If only it didn’t feel like a blow! Think these locals will give in?”

“No.” Durasnir pointed at the hazy humps of islands off the western shore. “Their fleet will be hiding behind those and the rest up the harbor, where our draught is too deep to sail. Just like when I was here last.” He sniffed. “If the coming storm doesn’t hit first.”

Seigmad gave a bark of laughter. “They talked of the stink of our spices. What stinks to me is their fear.”

Except for the creak of wood and the quiet whoosh of oars too well handled to splash, there were no sounds. The two knew that a spiderweb lay over the longboat: whatever they said, Erkric would hear.

The main pier was visible now. A knot of people in gaudy dress awaited them at the end. They stood close together in the manner of people trying to hide uneasiness. The sun was merciless on their formal wear, which was long, cape-layered coats worn open over shorter personal coats of contrasting silk, embroidered vests, and paneled trousers. It seemed that in Llyenthur, embroidered shoes were now the fashion; of those gathered there, only one held himself with what Durasnir and Seigmad considered military bearing.

“Fat one toward the back.”

“Just so.”

As the longboat drew to the kelp-streaming, barnacle-dotted floating dock below the pier, Durasnir gazed up into those watching faces. They betrayed apprehension in widened pupils and compressed mouths, anger making bodies tight, and cheeks mottled with color that had little to do with the bright sun radiating directly onto their heads.