The Dark Ferryman (23 page)

Sevryn scrubbed his hands over his face. He knew that Daravan would think him addled and rightly so. Better to hold his tongue than to appear the fool, especially in these days. There was no doubt the enemy would be afoot, and when he spoke of such things, he needed to have proof. He had nothing tangible he could show but the uneasiness on his spirit, toward both Quendius and the intentions of his queen. Armies could, and would, move on his word in the near future. He had to be circumspect, and he had to be infallible. Kedant-laced visions were neither.

He got to his feet and stretched, deciding that what his mind and body needed was a good stint in the arena, where he did not have to think overmuch. That, too, would keep him alive.

Morning hung fitfully over the arena, a leaden sky promising a day of gloom if not rain, and its chill dappled the soldiers and bowmen who sat at the edges of the training grounds, cleaning or repairing their weapons and armor. Sevryn found a willing sparring partner in the person of one Taitrus, a tall, amber-eyed Vaelinar who had some Kernan blood in his lineage somewhere, befitting the bulk of his body, but that Kernan heritage was a generation or so ago. He stood taller as well as wider than Sevryn, a good sword and shield man, and the corner of his mouth quirked as they sized each other up. He’d seen Taitrus going out on detail but had never fought by his side, so they were both unknown quantities to each other. Sevryn knew that the soldier saw him for a half-breed without the multi-hued eyes of power that marked the Vaelinar blood that ran true, just as his own amber eyes showed only the golden-brown color of his Kernan blood. Taitrus flexed his sword arm, his head tilted a little, gauging Sevryn’s balance as they squared away. The soldier also knew that Sevryn was the Queen’s Hand, and that accounted for much, both said and unsaid.

They traded a few blows, solid but unremarkable, taking each other’s measure in reach and balance. Sevryn could feel the pulse quicken in him slightly. He parried a hard hit, felt it vibrate throughout his forearm into his elbow, and grinned. Taitrus was not going to toy with him just because he rode at the Warrior Queen’s side. They sparred deliberately, warming up even as the hidden sun added no warmth to the day. There was no rain, no frost, no snow, but the day was indisputably winter. It held its cold decisively, and only their movement heated them as their blows began to quicken. The arena filled with the sound of their weapons striking and slicing air, and the murmur of a small audience watching and perhaps placing a few side bets. Sevryn backed off a step, took a moment to swipe the back of his hand across his forehead, and threw Taitrus a grin. “Street rules, to first blood?” he suggested.

The soldier grinned back. “First blood,” he agreed.

And street rules meant no rules at all. They balanced on the balls of their feet, knees flexed, and started to fight in earnest. Sevryn took note of a slight stiffness in the other’s left leg, and played on that, even as the other’s longer reach kept him moving and weaving. They worked on each other, swords clashing but also feet kicking and a roll through the dirt now and then to dodge or unbalance the other. Taitrus fought well, both clean and dirty, and they grunted at each other in mutual appreciation of their skill. Heat ran through his limbs and sweat dripped from his chin as they hit, parried, dropped back, lunged into striking distance, free hands and feet working as often as the sword hand, blows thudding off their forms. He could feel the heat pooling and then rolling off his body and thought for a moment that the kedant still held him, but there was no scent of it in his sweat. An inferno built in his veins, as though the sword and fist play built a fire in a forge, stoking it with every stroke. Taitrus matched him well. He slapped the other across the hip soundly with the flat of the blade, sending him staggering. Taitrus righted himself and winked. “You’re more than a pretty boy for the queen, eh?”

Sevryn chuckled at that before dodging a well-aimed kick, spinning away from it, the momentum sliding off his movement. For a space of time, they forgot their swords for fists and boots, dodging and jabbing and tripping when they could close on the other. Taitrus was swifter than he looked, but Sevryn had years of growing up in city backstreets to guide his survival instincts.

Then the soldier struck him in the jaw, fist jolting him.

Sevryn rocked back on one heel and shook his head to clear it. His ears roared a second, and the burn of the hit filled his face. He parried quickly, not letting Taitrus drive in closer on the heel of his reaction. Something stirred in Sevryn. His vision went red for a moment, as though a curtain of blood poured down from his brow. He blinked as Taitrus fended off his parry, blocked, and turned slightly away from him, exposing his own flank. In the street, that would have brought a kidney shot. His hand fisted. The veil across his sight cleared, but slowly, like a red-shot sunrise fading. He could feel a thrum in his ears, his pulse thickening, a catch in his throat.

The sparring became more than an exercise, much more. He wanted to take the arrogance out of this soldier, the quickness, the expertise. He wanted to pound him into the ground until the blood ran, and then he wanted the blood. . . .

A soft rumble came out of the back of his throat. The growl rattled through him, cutting off his breath for a moment, and Taitrus shivered a bit before he spun about on his heel to meet Sevryn. They had exchanged few words up until then, except for a “Nice one” or “Well hit.” The less breath wasted on talking, the more stamina the fighter held. But the atmosphere changed with Sevryn’s growl. Taitrus dropped his shoulders in defense and waited for Sevryn’s next move. No apology. None needed with street rules.

Sevryn whipped around, sending his heel slamming into the other’s shoulder. Taitrus staggered back on his stiffening leg, as Sevryn tumbled back into balance and lunged while the other fought to turn away. He went for the weakness, and Taitrus sensed it instinctively, both pivoting a little awkwardly even as he swept his blade down. Both of them grunted as they hit, Taitrus taking only a swipe as the flat of his sword knocked Sevryn aside with a blow to his shoulder. Sevryn rolled as he went down and came up, anger roiling through him.

Taitrus settled himself, moving his sword from one hand to the other, his gaze leveled on Sevryn. A glint lay at the back of his eyes, a sudden knowledge of Sevryn’s intent. The heat coiled and rippling through his body lessened and Sevryn shook it off. An angry fighter only had honed instincts going for him, strategy thrown to the wind, and often even his instincts were not enough to save his life. And this was not a fight, this was a spar, this was training. His thoughts cooled.

They circled one another, looking for an opening, catching their breath, shaking off the stings of their last blows. And, at the back of his mind, Sevryn felt a whisper. A stirring. It made his scalp crawl from the inside out.

Taitrus took advantage of his reach and slapped at Sevryn, his blade sizzling through the air and catching him on the side of the head before he could weave away, and the burn of the hit brought a snarl from him as he fell away from it. His blood boiled in anger, his lips curled with a feral sound.

Sevryn choked back the growl that threatened to bubble up from the depths of his throat. He knew that sound, knew it from the core of himself, from the time he had existed only as a soul and Cerat had swallowed him whole. He did not know where the Demon manifested, only that it was very close and leaning on him as only the Souldrinker could. It wanted him, but more than that, it wanted the death of Taitrus. If it had hands of its own, it would take Taitrus by the neck and shake him as though he were some vermin to be slaughtered. Barring that, it wanted Sevryn to dance in the man’s blood and to bathe Cerat in the man’s essence and soul. It knew how to reach Sevryn.

It came from within.

Sevryn showed his teeth. Cerat whispered along his bones.
A training accident, a blow twisted awry into a fatal stab, it would be so easy
. . . It would be so g
ood
.

He pushed the thought away, but it bubbled back up, a fountain that would drown him. Taitrus jabbed at him, and he blocked it, shrugging it off. He could feel the bloodlust rolling off him.

Sevryn dropped his sword to the arena floor and kicked it away in the dust. Eyes widening in disbelief, Taitrus shrugged and then tossed his sword away also, knotting one hand into a fist and curling the other one. He danced a step toward Sevryn. He beckoned, a slow grin returning to his face.

Sevryn clamped his jaws tight and moved in deliberately. He would not take long, he did not dare. Not if Taitrus wanted to be able to walk out of the arena that day. Taitrus was his sparring partner, but the real battle would be against Cerat and the need to kill.

SLEEP CAME FOR ALL BUT TWO in the spacious apartment rooms of the queen where candles guttered low and Jeredon sat, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, one hand absently rubbing his right knee as if a deep, unconscious ache pained him. Lara stopped and squeezed his shoulder before moving past him and dropping into the cushioned chair opposite. "I’m sorry to keep you so late.”

“Osten, when he decides to talk, will rumble for days.”

“I had more to say than he did. Our archers are trained for the field, not for sniping from trees and rivers. They did poorly.”

“Our general is minded in that way.”

“He is. You’re not, nor is Bistel.”

The corner of Jeredon’s shadowed face pulled. “Bistel declined to head your troops.”

“I know.” Lara looked into the banked fire which barely held enough heat to chase the cold from her rooms. “We have his backing, and yet we don’t. The talking, for now, is done. We’ve training to finish. But that’s not why I asked you to wait up for me.”

“It isn’t?”

“No.” Lara wearily tugged off the black sash of mourning from her upper arm and let it drift to the floor. “I know you’ll be handling the replacements capably. What we need to talk about is Nutmeg.”

He dropped his gaze a moment before meeting hers steadily, as if gathering himself.

She added quietly, “I hear you’ve refused yet another request from the Stronghold of the ild Fallyn to send healers.”

“I may not be the man our grandfather wanted me to be, but I have some grasp of the situation. Tressandre will seize the opportunity and come here if she thinks she can get away with it. Alton will go to the muster. She couldn’t replace you directly, so she will come at you through me.”

“And?”

“I’ll let her. Let me do this for you.”

“You can’t let Nutmeg come into harm’s way between you.”

“I wouldn’t.” He shifted his legs restlessly. “Even Meg doesn’t know how well I can stand and walk, and I don’t intend to let her. This is one advantage we have, my disability. I’ll draw the attention you can’t afford to have. And I won’t let Nutmeg come to harm. Not from Tress anyway.” He looked away then, into the glowing embers of the banked fire.

“If it weren’t for Nutmeg, you wouldn’t be walking now.”

“Don’t think, don’t ever think, that I don’t know that.”

“And that she adores you.”

“I know,” Jeredon said tiredly. “I’ve tried, but she warms me like that fire does. Can I not share her spark a little longer?”

“All I ask is that when you put her aside, do it soon and gently. She deserves happiness among her own, and contentment, and nothing more than a few brief but treasured memories. Not a life of longing and regret.”

“That cuts.”

“All the more reason,” Lara replied softly.

“I will. Soon. When I can find a way to tell her.”

“You have to find the means. This is something that can’t be, for either of you.”

“Don’t you think I don’t tell myself that? I have hounds of our bloodlines that will live longer than a Dweller, yet it makes her burn all the brighter in my eyes.”

“You can’t let her grow old and bitter while you do not. You can’t lose her that way, Jeredon, it will tear the heart out of both of you.”

He did not answer, but his breath sighed out of him slowly.

Lara got up and rested her hand on the top of her brother’s head. “None of this will be easy for any of us.” She withdrew to the bedroom of her apartment, leaving him staring at the fire as it guttered lower and lower, yet refused to burn out.

Lara hadn’t realized she had been hearing Bistane’s voice until she slowed in her descent and it filled the stairwell. Another song she hadn’t heard before, and with the simple cadence and rhyming scheme of a bar song, it detailed the efforts of a Bolger to get a God to notice him, despite all the obvious omens that he would really be much better off if a God didn’t notice him. The misguided attempts of the Bolger caused ever more trouble until a smile tipped her lips as the clever ditty wound around upon itself to end. The listeners below broke into scattered applause and shouts of appreciation. She paused on the final step, wondering if Bistane had deliberately brought levity with him.

He appeared in the hall as if her thoughts made him materialize, one hand held out. “A fair morning it is,” he observed, “but fairer still for the smile you bring.” As handsome as his father, there could be no doubt Bistel Vantane had sired him, but he looked younger than he was, even younger than Lariel, and she hated for a moment that he made her feel weary. Perhaps he held his youth because he stood in his father’s shadow, Bistel so dominant and still in his prime, but the reason didn’t matter. He made her feel
old
. She pushed the feeling away and forced the mirth of the song back into her thoughts.

“The smile is yours,” she said and took his hand.

“It might fade. My father has sent me a reply to your call.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“He will not attend.”

Did her fingers grow colder in his hand? She hoped not. She kept her voice level as she answered, “Does he give reason? Lord Vantane knows that we will miss him sorely.”