Two Queens (Seven Heavens Book 1) (8 page)

“So mother could have been queen but she decided not to?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” He thought about this for a while. All the things he thought she loved in her stories—fancy dresses, dancing, soft beds, large houses—to these she had said no.

“Do you think there really is a curse?” he asked after a time.

“I do not know what to think, son. Your mother is the noblest person I have met: I cannot think it so. It goes against the very fabric of nature.” He yawned. “Yet I know little of these things. Who is a man to challenge the Unicorn? He is far older than us. Some things, maybe, we cannot understand.” He smiled. “Especially at this time of night.” He picked his wife up and walked to the old cabin.

Brian made himself move, willing the sleep out of his legs. The words themselves were confusing enough: the thoughts behind them—princess, oath, Unicorn—vaster still. How could Astra bear it—even blaming herself for Adara's death! And now the lost kardja, too, he supposed, though those two losses could not be weighed on the same scale.

When he was building the fire he thought his questions would be answered. Well, perhaps some. But now there were other questions. What was this curse? Was he cursed too? Would he die like his sister? Rather, why wasn't he dead yet? The questions swarmed him like a hive of wasps.

How could his father have known for so long and not made his mind up one way or the other? Brian settled into the strange cabin, familiar when compared to the new thoughts darting through his head.

Six

Paris awoke. He had chanced sleeping in cart and profited from the risk. Much better than the hard ground. He paraded through the village, calling out his goods. Not a single sale.

He stopped opposite the blacksmith's house. Was she still there with her brute of a husband? And that boy—the height of a man but none of the breadth. He hadn't seen a black-haired child this far east. Something odd about him struck Paris that he couldn't quite place.

Never mind. The key thing was, she was here, she had it, and he could wait it out. He had more time than she did. It was annoying that she didn't sell it to him yet, but what could he do? One doesn't just kill a princess to take her treasure. It was perplexing—at least with dragons in the old days you didn't have to worry about such niceties. Ah, but she would be easier to deal with in this vexing way than a dragon.

But why not? A thought began to form in his mind. Of course he wouldn't outright kill her—that wasn't his style, despite being a Kyrian. He was a Paris and that meant cunning. At any rate, the two heavy blokes she tended to be around, that blacksmith and her husband, were annoyances that couldn't be overlooked.

But the boy. Paris figured him to be exactly the sort that would be picked on should he have the good fortune of noble parents. Say, the Kyrian Martial Academy as a boarding school. Paris laughed at himself, pleased to find a subject to pass the hours with. Yes, and full of interesting nuance. His slight frame—no defense against the sturdy sons of warlords. His eyes—they seemed to promise some intelligence, at least, Paris thought, as compared to the usual empty-headed nincompoop he had to deal with in the country.

But what would draw the bullies like maggots to rotting flesh? His features were a little different. Paris mostly saw his mother's in him. That probably was it, why he had classed him that way. Too much of the womanly in his features. If not womanly, definitely avallonean. Nothing of the peasant father.

Illegitimate? No, too much to hope for. Avallonë was enough for Kyrian teenage boys. Imagine, living in a city run by a woman? Surely there were no real men in Avallonë.

Suddenly Paris jerked upright. Was he that much of a fool? The years of his quest had not worn well on him. He thought too much like a merchant, a petty swindler. A merchant would try to buy a valuable piece for less than its worth. A merchant would travel to the right buyer for such an article to rake in his profits. And that, ever since he saw the Princess—for whom else could this be?—that was all he had thought about.

Stupid, bumbling idiot.

The boy was the key. The two men—minor problems the moment he returned to civilized lands. Even her: she would be nothing at all.

He was Paris. Not one of those pathetic, patronizing patricians who flocked about the prince, seeking his favors like the light of the sun. His family were kingmakers, power brokers—they didn't seek favors, they reveled in them. Kyrians who did not consider the House of Paris did not fare well, and that included the Kings.

To think that he was waiting for her to sell. That he would happily hand over what she asked, travel his way back to civilization, and meekly hand over a Treasure of Westernesse for a finder's ransom. It was wrong on so many levels. A Paris didn't take terms; he made them. She would sell because he would make her. And the others? Why, they'd be no trouble at all.

Well, maybe a tear would be shed when Avallonë heard their exiled, disgraced princess had come to a tragic end. With his help.

The boy was the key. She had violated her oath: no one, now, could stand in his way.

Three days later Devlin and his family were still fixing up the cabin. Brian vaguely remembered living here long ago. He thought of it as his grandparents' house even though they had never met. He felt like suggesting they make a new cabin but held back, following Devlin's orders and waiting to see what would turn out. They made good progress on the cabin, unlike Brian's attempts at finding work with the weavers: at the moment small matter, though still troublesome, in Brian's mind. He knew they would figure something out.

The kardja cropped the cabin clearing short and began ranging into the woods, trying out ferns and bushes. Devlin, Astra, and Brian in turn would lead them through the forest to the meadows they came about.

“Dad, what causes the meadows here? Why isn't it all forest?” Brian asked about the fifth day.

“Why do you ask? It isn't all forest on top of the mountain.”

“There the wind fells them if they get large enough. And the soil is not so deep. Nor the air so full,” he promptly replied. “But there is no wind here and the ground is lush.”

“I'm not sure. But the meadow I took them to yesterday was cleared by neighbors of mine for their cabin, long ago.”

“I don't recall a cabin there.”

“I tore it down for slabs soon after meeting your mother.” He laughed. “Perhaps ten, twenty years from now after living elsewhere I will return once again, to repair this old place. Can't seem to get away from it.”

“There must have been a lot of people in Darach, then, for there are dozens of meadows.”

“Not as many as you would think. Men are not the only loggers—beavers, too, turn forest into meadow. It's one of life's delights, seeing a beaver at its work. Many left when we left. 'It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good,' as they say, and that was an ill wind.”

He spoke no more that morning.

A few days later they awoke early. Ramona began boiling water for breakfast and Devlin stirred the kardja up. He took them to a secluded meadow an hour's walk away and left them. All but Kerry, who Brian had haltered up to a skid. She had just reached her full strength as a four-year-old.

Brian took her into the forest and began hauling in the last of the wall poles. He was proud that his kardja was the strong one,

On his third trip back Brian saw Kerdae standing in front of the cabin, meaty hands on his hips. The blacksmith hallooed at him and Brian grinned. He untied the load from the skid and began leading Kerry back.

“Brian, take Enda with you,” his mother called, “and bring back a bucket of berries. Remember where I showed you?”

“Yes, I remember. Hi, Enda.”

“Hi Brian.” She ran up the path to Kerry. “Is this yours? He's a cutie.”

“It's a she. Her name is Kerry.” Brian grinned.

“Oh, oops. Sorry, Kerry,” she said, stroking her neck. “It's been a long time since I petted one. Most of the ones we see are dirty old things or look horribly skinny right after shearing.”

“Come on,” Brian said and led Kerry up the path. Pretending it was an everyday matter he led her next to a fallen log. With a step and a jump he was on her back. She shimmied about. He leaned forward and petted her. “Shhh, shhh.” He tried to avoid thinking about what Devlin would say that.

Enda didn't know better. “Wow, you can ride her? I thought only horses could do that!”

He turned around in his seat. “Of course I can. She's a kardja. You hear the stories, don't you?”

She blushed at the edge in his tone. “Look, Brian, about that night, I—”

“Don't—I didn't mean it. I mean, sorry. You haven't heard about men riding kardja? Like Liam?”

“Who's Liam?” she asked.

“You really don't know?” She shook her head. “Well, there's only one way to find out. How much do you weigh?”

The look of shock on her face was priceless. He'd never seen her at a loss for words before with him. “Brian Devlinson, you don't ask a girl her weight!”

“You do if you want to take care of her.”

“Well, I don't feel taken care of. And Kerdae takes care of me, not you. Good thing, too,” she spat.

“Not you, her.” He tilted his head at Kerry. “Father will only let her carry eighteen stone, and I'm ten by myself. Though he does say riders are better weight than most things one puts on a kardja back.”

“Oh... what! You'll let me ride her?” Her face melted.

“Yeah, and it's easier riding second than solo. So, how much?” he smiled.

“Seven.”

“Okay then. Stand on that log. Here,” he held out his left hand and she clambered up behind him. Kerry sidestepped with the added weight. “Steady, girl. Okay back there?”

“Yes.”

“You can stop pinching my hand.”

“Oh, sorry.” She slipped it around his waist.

“Let's go.” He nudged Kerry with his heels and she started walking forward. He repeated words Devlin had told him long ago. “Now, the only way to hear about Liam is to feel the story. The only way to do that, is to mount a fine kardja.” He could still feel the wind rippling around him, stopped by his father's broad back, his whole body swaying up and down with the quick, smooth pace of Myra's loping. His father had taken hours to tell the story to him that day.

Today the short version would have to do.

Paris's frustration grew. He had seen nothing of them—lady, husband, or child—for almost a week. Who knew where they had gone off to? Or how long it would be until their return? His hate grew against the woman for slipping from his grasp so easily. He hated himself, too: how could one spend years in such a pursuit and fail on so trivial a matter? A quick flick of the wrist, a slash to the halter, and he was riding free, his annoying cart left behind for good. He drank every bottle he could find.

The next morning he awoke to the beat of the blacksmith's anvil. He screamed, his head splitting apart at the noise. He grabbed at anything cloth to drown out the noise. Throb, throb, throb. He hated the blacksmith, the town, everything. But most of all that awful noise. Would it ever stop?

Surprisingly, it did. And soon. He cringed, awaiting its return. He listened for all he was worth for the next blow—would it be a dull crash or the sharp, bell-like ring? Slowly his throbbing lessened. He could almost ignore it. Gritting his teeth he got up and woke to see the blacksmith and the redheaded girl walking into the wood. She had something in her hand, a basket of sorts.

Paris slumped over to the creek and washed his face in the chilly water. His mind cleared, a little, and he sat there, a rare spot just out of reach of the morning's long shadows. A slight tickle of sunlit air reached him. Not much to warm up with but a promise of more.

He trudged back to his cart. The blacksmith's path came into view clearly marked, for the dew hung heavy on all the untrod grass.

His mind clicked like the gate to the palace garden in Kyriopolis. Maybe the Ring was still nearby. He moved swiftly to the cart and, after a slight change to his wardrobe, crept after the blacksmith.

The path winded through the light forest, avoiding thick underbrush. It steadily progressed eastward. Paris was rounding a thick clump of oak when a raven screeched at him. He jumped, tripping into the branch that lay dead right in front of him. A few stumbling steps in desperation and he was down beside it, his head mere inches from a protruding rock.

He sat there until the trees stopped swaying in erratic circles above him. He got back on his feet. First thing back in civilized lands he'd rid himself of this silly costume. In the present he contented himself with transferring some of the damp dirt from forehead to sleeve.

He walked on, eyes wide open. He took in the sky, too, this time but saw no further sign of the raven. At last his patience was rewarded: he jumped back against a tree he had just walked around. His split second glance had caught a ramshackle collection of grayed wood on the edge of a clearing. It was not five score paces away.

The lady was standing in front, hands occupied with something, and the blacksmith was a few feet from her. Next to him was a pile of more wood, a lighter color though. He was turned towards this, away from her, and—lucky for him—away from him, too. Paris sat staring into nowhere, back against the tree, whole body tensed.