Grudgebearer (8 page)

Scowling, she continued on.

*

At the edge of the city, the rough cobbles gave way to what barely passed as a deer trail. Trees grew right up to the city wall, the limbs hanging over it gnarled and ancient. Eyeing the trees, Wylant could not make out any signs of the Vael, but she knew they had to be there.

“I am Wylant,” she said firmly. Not sure what level of volume would be required, she settled on the not-quite-a-shout she used when addressing a line of troops. “I come on foot with urgent need to address—”

“Why'd you cut your hair?” came a feminine voice. “My, but you're loud.”

Wylant suppressed a smile. Leave it to the Vael to focus on the physical. Then again, considering how much shorter their life spans were than, say, her own people's or the Aern's, she guessed it was appropriate.

“Is it really because you hate the gods?” asked another. “She is quite loud, though. You're quite right in that, Arri.”

“Or did you just go bald?” asked a third. “Both of you: don't be rude about her religion, she's His. You know that, Malli, even if Arri can't be bothered to study history.”

“Some humans go bald,” said the first voice.
Arri
, Wylant recalled, repeating the name over and over in her head to try and attach it firmly to the voice in her mind.

“But mainly the boy-type persons,” said the second voice.
Malli. Malli. Malli
, Wylant thought.

“She's definitely a girl-type person.” The fourth voice was masculine. Wylant saw him stepping free of the undergrowth with the same slight start of surprise one might have when a stick-bug started to move or a moth which had looked like nothing more than a piece of bark flew away. He smelled of oak leaves and a tart but pleasant musk which reminded her of Kholster. The male's lined brown skin was rough and bark-like. Pointed ears almost as long as a donkey's swept at an angle back over his shoulders, and his red hair, like strands of braided leaves, crackled softly as he moved.

The Vael male met Wylant's gaze with unblinking ruby-colored eyes seemingly possessed of no pupils or sclera, just glittering globes of uniform color. “Hello, kholster Wylant,” he said warmly. “I'm Tranduvallu. You may call me Tran, if you like. How can the Vael be of assistance to the Aiannai?”

Wylant had seen Vael males before. Where the Vael females had been made to appeal to the Aern and Eldrennai as idealized sexual objects, the Vael males were different, appealing to the Vael females' sense of the ideal male, lending most of them a distinct similarity to the first one hundred Aern.

Tran, in particular, bore such a resemblance to Vander beneath all the bark and despite the ears that it gave Wylant pause. Uled had never intended that there be male Vael, just as he had intended no female Aern exist. She wondered for the umpteenth time whether Xalistan, the god of the hunt, Gromma, the goddess of nature, Jun, the builder, or Torgrimm himself had arranged their dual-genderedness against all intentions. And why? Was it just a game to the god or goddess involved, or did they simply object to a race that could not breed with itself? However it had happened, his presence threw her off. Vael protected their menfolk even more fiercely than the Aern protected their daughters. . . . What was he doing out here?

“What's wrong with it?” Roc asked too loudly, shocking Wylant out of her reverie.

“Roc!” Mazik thumped him on the back of the head before Wylant had the chance.

“Not all Vael choose to strip their bark,” Tran answered with a smile. “Any more than we all choose to score or prune our dental ridges so they appear more like teeth. I strip my bark in summer sometimes, but not always. Think of it like shaving off a beard, if that helps.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course,” Roc fumbled.

“I need to speak with Queen Kari,” Wylant said. “It's about the Zaur. And we need to discuss the impending Conjunction.”

“You may enter, of course,” Tran said. “You are welcome in The Parliament of Ages, kholster Wylant, and always shall be as long as you are Aiannai.”

“General,” Hira corrected, looking lost even as he spoke, as if he knew he shouldn't have spoken but could not stop himself. “She is not an Aern.”

“Of course she is,” Tran said matter-of-factly, waving away all thoughts to the contrary with a dismissive air. “By marriage. Her Sidearms, of course, may not enter.”

“Why not?” Roc blurted.

“Shall we recite the names of your victims, mighty Roc?” Tran's eyes narrowed. “Your reputations precede you, Sidearms. It has been many years since a recitation has been needed, but the names have not been lost even if none alive recall the specific acts you committed.”

“Kam may enter,” Arri said, still hidden by the forest. “If he swears himself an Aiannai and foreswears his Eldrennai heritage. I have no authority to grant him scars to wear in the manner of kholster Wylant, but he has no list of names to face, no litany.”

“And he can't be grabby,” Malli put in. “Don't forget that. I'm not walking around wearing a samir over my face just because some dumb stump-eared male can't control himself.”

“I know Vael are supposed to be supernaturally attractive to the Eldrennai,” Kam blustered, “but—”

Malli stepped out of the forest. A scent like royal garden roses filled Wylant's nostrils. Uled had once explained to her the effect Vael had on Eldrennai had as much to do with scent as it did their appearance. Small, lithe, and ample bosomed, Malli wore tight doeskin leggings which stopped at mid-calf, exposing the curve of her shapely leg and silvery birch-bark–colored skin. Her heavily beaded top was equally form fitting, even though it covered the skin from the top of her neck to her wrists.

Short purple shoots adorned her head, a crown of almost hair, like some cross between orchid petals and actual hair. Lips tinted that same purple hue quirked into a smile, revealing carefully pruned dental ridges that looked very much like actual teeth.

“Hi, Kam,” Malli purred.

Kam's response was an animal grunt which Wylant assumed to have been intended as a greeting.

“Don't shoot this one in the knee, okay, Molls?” Tran said softly.

“Can you talk, Kam?” Wylant asked.

“I . . . uh . . . I,” was his only immediate reply, broken up by laughter from Frip, Frindo, and Ponnod. Kam seemed not to notice, lost in the deep violet pools of Malli's eyes.

“It's almost not fair for a creature that enchanting to be the first flower girl the boy's ever seen,” Hira said breathily.

“So that's settled then,” Wylant snapped. “The Sidearms will NOT be joining me in The Parliament of Ages. Camp north of Porthost and don't annoy the locals. It's a direct order and disobeying it may risk us all. Understood?”

“Yes, General,” Mazik and the others (except for the speechless Kam) answered at once.

Wylant shot a careful glance from Mazik to Kam and then to Malli. When she, Tran, and the other Vael turned to leave, Mazik and Hira were already at the young Eldrennai's sides, holding him back from chasing after the departing Vael.

“Wait!” he shouted as Malli vanished into the forest. “Wait!”

Wylant clenched her fists and sighed.

“At least he didn't actually make a grab for her,” Tran said, moving alongside Wylant.

“I suppose.” Wylant allowed. It had been so long since Wylant had set foot in the ancient forest, she'd forgotten how wonderful it was. Tran and Malli were plainly visible to her, but she could sense other Vael around her in the forest even though she could not quite spot them. “How many?”

“Guards?” Tran asked. He grinned broadly. “Thirty. I'm Taking Root soon, so they are all keeping a special eye on me until I find the right spot. Queen Kari wants an outpost close to Porthost and I've always enjoyed human watching, so when I felt the time coming upon me, I offered to do it.”

Wylant shook her head again.

“So that would be Prince Tranduvallu, then?”

“Only royal males can become the roots of a home tree,” Tran answered. “So what was it you wanted to speak with Mother about?”

“The Zaur.” Wylant had spotted five other Vael so far, moving in the branches of the surrounding trees. “Maybe it's nothing, but I've been sensing them on and off for years and it's getting worse. I want her to keep an extra eye out. I'd also like to meet the Vael representative to the Conjunction.” Wylant suppressed a “ha” as she spotted another six Vael in quick succession.

“Kholster Wylant comes to the Parliament worried about the Zaur.” Tran almost clapped his hands together in utter delight. “Who would have thought I'd be lucky enough to see such a thing while still in my mobility?”

Who indeed?
Wylant thought to herself.
And am I really that predictable?

“You'll like the choice of representatives, too,” Tran continued, “but I'm unsure you'll learn much. They are still quite young.”

“How young?”

Tran stopped and gazed at her, his dark, impassive eyes turning serious. “This crop will be one week old tomorrow.”

Wylant cursed, but pressed on.

CHAPTER 8

AERN TEASING

Breemson, the magistrate, failed to alleviate any of Conwrath's fears. He'd only met the man a few times, usually very briefly at family events. Somehow Conwrath had never realized the man was this . . . incompetent. Or was it just dealing with the Aern that put him off? It flustered many men, dealing with people who would happily eat someone to whom they'd just been speaking.

Maybe he'll get his feet under him soon.
The captain watched as the man fretted with his robes and sucked his teeth. A magistrate and a God Speaker for Shidarva. . . . The goddess of justice and retribution seemed to Conwrath to be a hands-on sort of goddess, giving her most ardent followers fair value for their worship, but God Speakers, particularly hers, with the image of their pale blonde goddess tattooed across their bodies: her face inset within the boundaries over their face, her chest over their chest, and so on . . . the thought sent a cold chill up the captain's back and gave him the flesh crawls.

Her blue eyes stared out at him below Breemson's own. Thankfully, they were inanimate for the moment. If the goddess herself were looking on, it was from the spirit realm, as was only right and suitable for a god. Conwrath looked away.

Japesh sat on a gilded wooden stool near the door of the magistrate's office, a look of practiced neutrality fixed as firmly across his features as other men might don a helm. His eyes held a different message:
Say the word, Captain, and I'll gut this one. God Speaker or no. Surely your wife can't be too mad. And if he's supposed to live, his goddess will save him then, won't she?

A study in self-importance, Breemson's office spoke as loudly to the man's stubborn pride as his own offended reaction to the presence of the Grudgebearers in his city. What wasn't gilded was lacquered. Nothing was local except for the door itself. If Conwrath guessed correctly, the magistrate's desk was made from purpleheart wood, which had to have been hauled all the way from Castleguard in Upper Barrone.

Conwrath amused himself by trying to estimate the shipping costs for the item itself as well as for strictly the materials necessary. The Dwarves preferred locally sourced materials and placed prohibitive taxes on those transporting construction materials across the intercontinental Junland Bridge, which would have been the fastest way to get the desk from the Upper continent to the Lower one. The tariffs alone to get the cursed thing across the length of Barrony . . . Conwrath suspected the goddess had not demanded such expenses be incurred.

“Why do they want to see
me
about it?” Breemson hissed. “It's not my fault we didn't have the correct instructions! Shidarva judge me now if I've angered them deliberately.”

“Magistrate.” Conwrath tried not to sound too condescending. “The Grudgers aren't angry with anyone. They—”

“Aren't angry? They killed and ate half the trade delegation!” Breemson shrieked. “And then they
dare
to come to my doorstep to threaten me.”

Conwrath didn't like the inflection on that “dare” or the “me.” Indignation never sat well with an Aern.

“I believe Kholster is approaching you in an open, honest manner . . . hoping to . . . ah—”

“Clear up any further misunderstoodings,” Japesh added helpfully.

“Misunderstandings?” Breemson squawked as he bounded out of his chair. Conwrath winced at the volume. The Aern had particularly good hearing. What, he wondered, were the odds that Kholster and every one of his Aern could hear every word they were saying, even from out in the audience chamber? “I suppose having the Long Speakers withhold news of his arrival was meant as a sign of openness and honesty then? I assume I misunderstood that, too?”

“Cousin.” Conwrath began a different tack. “This is easy. I know the Aern seem backward and savage from your side of the battle, but they're knife-to-the-chest sort of people. Never a knife in the dark. If they want to kill you, they'll tell you that's what they intend to do—”