Two Queens (Seven Heavens Book 1) (6 page)

Brian nodded. The kardja survived where horse could not and a week later routed the southerners. The army returned enthroned in victory; yet, without its leader. His kardja Finola had died in the battes; a mere week later in Arcadia, Liam fell ill from the feast and did not rise.

“'Your kardja, your life,'” Brian quoted. “Liam lost Finola and it killed him.”

Ramona stopped and grabbed Brian's arm. “Son, not all things are as they seem. A difficult decision had to be made. Please do not judge hastily.” Her eyes searched his, looking for agreement. “Your life is your own. None other can take it from you, not even Kerry. It is your choice to bestow it where you wish. Do you understand?”

“Yes mother,” Brian said. “But what decision?”

“I will tell you soon.” The list was growing of questions he had for his mother: would it ever shorten?

“Ah, there they are! If only he could see him as I see him.” Brian turned to look. His father led the kardja into view around a spur of the mountain. His golden hair flamed in the morning sun and on his face was etched in bold lines the rough caresses of the mountain.

They waited for him. Brian looked at his mother, and could not look away. Her black hair waved slightly in the breeze, framing the piercing black eyes. Strong and terrible she was, and no creature of the woods or hills struck more fear in his heart than her displeased black eyes. He had not seen them often thus but the few times his stupidity had put himself or others at risk were enough to burn it forever in his memory.

He couldn't believe he was thinking this, but his fear of her comforted him. He knew her loyalty: that in the end she was on his side.

But not now. The face was soft, the eyes almost abashed, as if seeking to hide behind the long black eyelashes but not able to. How is one shy in the presence of a man one has been married to a score of years?

Devlin reached them and stopped. Brian felt as if the kardja—aye, even the wind—hushed for a moment. He looked at Ramona and held his hand out to her.

She went to him. “My lord,” she bowed and kissed his hand. He raised her up and kissed her on both cheeks. “Astra,” he answered. She kissed him on the lips.

Brian turned back to looking downhill. Astra?

They made their way into town. Brian walked beside Kerry most of the way. He loved looking at her long gray coat, her deep eyes as she looked about her. At least some things didn't change. The talk with his mother had been pleasant enough but excruciating and confusing. He was tired of holding his secret in.

Walking separate from his parents had an added bonus. He heard them speaking in low tones to each other, things that perhaps would not be said in his presence. Trying to decipher what they were saying kept him busy. Their actions were not surprising, just very interesting.

He realized this was as different for them as for him. He didn't know how his parents would react to having to live in Darach, just like he didn't know if he would like a world under a green sun. But they were older and had seen more of the world. How much, exactly, of the world had his mother seen?

The afternoon passed without incident. They set up camp with little fuss close to Darach. Ramona thought they should give their welcome and thanks to Kerdae and Enda; Devlin thought tomorrow would be soon enough and he didn't wish to, at this hour, lay claim to their hospitality by such an action. When Ramona agreed, adding that she was in no mood for talk this evening, Brian sighed in relief.

He feared what would happen when his mother crossed paths with certain busybodies of the town. Yet he craved for it to happen that he might gather some more shreds of what had actually happened. How does one live when what one fears and desires are one and the same?

Neither Devlin nor Ramona brought up the pressing question. What would go first? Kardja or keepsake? Would both be necessary? Or could, by some miracle, another way be found? His parents' indecision didn't bode well for his quandaries, a single person and much younger.

So it was that the tired family sought their makeshift beds for sleep. Their fraught minds fought their tired bodies. Brian may well have had the best of it, his child's mind more elastic to the strain; though, the long habits of a guarded wisdom, encircled by the love she bore her men and the calm assurance of their continued presence, were powerful allies in Ramona's repose.

Devlin had absolutely no schooling but that in no way denied his search for depth—whether in the strong roots of a mountain, a woman who would love him for who he really was, or a slow revolution of thoughts through his mind until the gold settled out of the dross. His will, placid like a broad river, was no less effective in the carriage of his impressions to a unified resolve than the far broad-watered Gihon was in bearing half the trade in Arcadia upon its back.

Paris looked up.
He watched the woman walk into the village. Her uncovered head hid nothing of the thick black tresses cascading down. That alone was worthy of remark
—
blondes, all blondes, here on the edge of the wild, and dirty blondes at that.

And their horrible posture! He knew it would not be easy for him to return to his old world, to take on the graces long dropped. But he could still criticize it in the common folk he came across. All of them miserable creatures, all of them flawed.

Except her.

He mindlessly sorted through his goods. He was glad of the excuse, a reason to be outside on this early winter day. He dropped his eyes now and then to a particular article, ever again raising them to inquire after the black-haired woman.

Was she the one? Could there be two in such a village? He tried not to gawk as she approached.

“Peddler!” the blacksmith called. “Do you wish to trade today?” He jumped at the sound and stared blankly at the interruption.

“Trade? Let us trade.” He walked into the smithy. Taking a last look over his shoulder he saw no woman, just large white flakes slowly falling. His chance wasted.

He conducted his trades, making hardly any recompense for his travel east. He would lose money here, no doubt. Too far out of the way, no market really. And his timing was horrible
—
Neal was right. They had nothing to trade and were quite content, the fools.

In a matter of minutes he found out the blacksmith was not looking to buy anything, just sell an unwanted contraption of some sort. He demonstrated its use but Paris, not paying much attention, was not improved by the exertion. Some stupid thing that tore wool into strips
—
now who would want that much stringy thread? What a waste. And to think the blacksmith thought he would lug that piece of junk all the way down the mountain for that price!

The blacksmith was getting frustrated. Paris roused himself. With some hasty pledges for future travels he made his escape.

He counted his money as he put it away. Not much at all
—
he remembered when he could spend treble this on a single round of drinks for his friends. Now, it was his sole stock, plus worthless unsold goods, to stave off becoming a villager himself. He cursed his bad luck.

“May I trade?” A worn out voice said above him.

He growled. “Day's over. You lot have had your pick of the goods.”

“I do not wish to buy,” the voice said, “I wish to sell.”

He awoke to the sound of the voice. He looked up, startled. The raven-tressed woman from before stood in front of him, her face pleading even after her lips had shut. He recovered quickly.

“Sell what? Corn? I've had enough of your rotten stock, can't sell it down on the lowlands. Meat? Got more than I can handle, chances are half will spoil before I can find a buyer. None of you folk is selling your karja yet, so what do you have?” He took the offensive, downgrading her goods even before he saw them.

“Kardja, yes, we rarely sell,” she gently added the 'd' backn into the word. “Perhaps, then, I might buy instead and save you from your predicament. Or borrow.” No change in her voice. No reaction to defend. And if she was in the market for food (who bought that of a peddler in a village like this?) he had just wiped out half his profits.

“What do you want, then?”

“Everything. All your food, all your money. Your horse and your cart. And your name. Everything.”

He jumped up. “Are you out of your mind, lady?” Hardly had the last word left his mouth when inside him, like a bell tower, there chimed a note proclaiming that he had picked the right word. Not woman. Lady.

“Peace, peace, or take it outside,” the blacksmith called out. Paris glared at him but the lady turned.

“Kerdae!” she sang out. “I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

Paris had never seen an overawed dog change tactics so fast. All aggression dropped from Kerdae's face.

“Ramona?” He asked. “Enda, she's here! Come and say hello!” he called out behind him. “Come in out of the weather.”

“Thank you, Kerdae, I will in a moment. I have some business I must trouble this gentleman for first.” She turned back to Paris.

He saw a redheaded girl, perhaps early teens, rushing outside only to be herded back in by the blacksmith. What hair color would he see next? He heard something and turned back to look at the lady.

“I am truly sorry for interrupting you this late,” she smiled a sad smile. Dragons fear that smile: it is the sort of thing that bring knights with sharp swords to their doorstep. “For what I have is a pressing matter, somewhat complex and somewhat private.”

Paris couldn't suppress the shivers that ran up and down his spine. She withdrew her hand from her coat. In her palm lay a silver ring crowned with a single sparkling gem. The silver band flowed up to encircle the gemstone like two rushing rivers. Paris gasped.

Diamond, most would think at first glance. Paris knew that's what he thought when in his youth he first beheld this ring. More accurately, when he first saw the painting of Artemis in the court of the king. He had never seen the ring itself.

Until now. The delight of the artist handily destroyed the negotiating position of the merchant. “It is lovely, is it not? I fear it is old and out of fashion, a trifling bauble held on from poorer days.”

“How—who are you?” He looked full into her face. She could be Artemis herself for all he knew. Older than the painting, with lines of care faintly visible on her brow. He felt now that the painting was a colossal fraud.

She laughed lightly. “No, no. It was I who bartered for the name, not you.”

“I am known as the merchant.”

“I said name.” She put her hand back in her coat and with it the ring. His eyes followed it then fell back to her waiting black ones.

“Paris.”

Her eyebrows rose then settled again. “What would you lend with this as security? I could inform you of someone who wished this trinket of me and would repay the loan.” She took the coin purse from in front of him and felt its heft.

He snatched his moneybag back from her. What carelessness! But who could blame him? “Perhaps five hundred shekels.” He was astounded at his audacity. “Truesilver, Kyrian issue, none of this mine-stamped roughage.”

Her face fell, then she considered it. “I thought you said merchant, not almsman,” she said.

Aha, enough of the intrigue. Play her a little more then settle in for the long game, he thought. “Eight hundred shekels, then?”

She yawned. “Perhaps peddler, yes, that's what I should call you.”

“I do apologize for tiring you,” he smiled, “you must be exhausted. Perhaps we should continue this tomorrow?” He stowed his bags into his cart. His nerves quivered more than when he had been pushed into an eel pond so many years ago. He bid her good night and walked to his horse, ears waiting, hoping, despairing for her comeback.

Just then a man and a boy came around the corner. The lady hurriedly slipped the ring back into her sleeve. “Is the camp set up? Kerdae and Enda await us.”

“Yes mother,” the boy answered, while the man looked from the lady to the merchant but said nothing.

A dull ache settled on Paris. A long game it was to be
—
how frustrating! Why not forget the negotiations and just get it? He had the bargaining power, why quibble over shekels? He had found her, he had found it, and she wished to sell. What could be better?

Something in the man's glance warned him off. Fear rose and by the time he had vanquished it the moment was gone. The lady was gone.

He couldn't be too eager, he told himself. She might suspect him. Why did he say his real name? Foolish blunder! Whatever made her wish to sell would surely not dissipate overnight.

Such thoughts did little in the face of the almost-purchase. He sighed and trudged out into the dusky twilight.

Five

That night Brian enjoyed himself more at Kerdae's dinner table than before. His mother had presented Enda with a large cheese, removing the feeling of begging at their doorstep completely. With his parents beside him there was no need to talk and eat at the same time. Brian happily chose the latter.

Kerdae and Devlin likewise fell to their meal. It was a simple bean stew livened up with some green sprouts Brian couldn't name. Ramona and Enda, deciding to talk while they ate, though not without taste, soon covered the subject thoroughly. Brian missed most of the culinary discussion, busy eating, until his mother's voice changed.

“What a delightful addition,” Ramona was saying, with the sound of summary judgment. “I know I've told you some of my favorites for bean stew, but really this is quite marvelous. How ever did you think of it?”

Enda smiled. “There's a clump of it behind our house, just sprung up all by itself there, so I guess just seeing it made me wonder what it was good for.”

“My smart Enda,—isn't this delicious?” she added, pointing her question at the men.

Devlin grunted approval mid-swallow. Kerdae wiped his mouth. “That's my girl,” he said.

“What do you think, Brian?” Ramona prodded.

“I—I like it,” he said, and hid behind another spoonful.

“You should. It is both tasty and healthy. Enda,”—here Brian relaxed, attention diverted away once more—“did you know helleboros helps prevent madness in particular?”

“No, ma'am, I did not know that,” Enda answered.