The Dark Ferryman (24 page)

“He sends word that he will retain a pittance of troops for his own use, and he sends assurances that he will not stint in his support of your decisions. ” Bistane’s voice stayed as light and unconcerned as if he still sang a whimsical melody, but his eyes were shadowed.

Her mouth twisted a little. The warlord of the north was showing both his approval and disapproval of her actions, and keeping an important part of his support at his own disposal. She supposed that the adage that half an apple was better than none would have to do. She squeezed his hand so that he would not take offense at her slowness in response to the news. “Then you will have to appreciate the fetish I am having made for my helm,” she told him.

“Indeed? Do I get a guess at its appearance?”

“You’d never guess it in a thousand tries.” Lariel let him tuck her hand under his arm as he escorted her to the breakfast hall, where the last remnants of the morning meal were being stored away, but the head cook peeked in and beamed when she saw Lara. Her booming voice notified the kitchen that they were not quite done yet providing and she wanted a platter of coddled eggs, fresh fruits, and a meat salad.

“You will join me?”

Bistane released her arm reluctantly and seated her. “A bite or two only. I ate earlier. I worked late, but rested well and was up early enough to have a brief word or two with General Osten. I saw Jeredon readying to leave for his therapeutics.”

“Did he? He usually does that at the end of day.”

“Not to sound like a laundry maid with gossip,” Bistane noted as he seated himself beside her, but his eyes were twinkling as he said it, “but the young Dweller lass who seems to have appointed herself as his nursemaid was in a fury when she found out he’d gone on without her. Reminded me of the days when my father learned I had forgotten to pen the hounds for the night or hood the hawks. I would not want to be Jeredon when she catches up with him.”

“A sound judgment, I’d say.” Lara paused as maids hurried out to bring her the fruit and meat salad and assure her that the coddled eggs, on fresh toast, would be following shortly. She put a plate aside for Bistane and let him have his pick of the fruits as she began to devour the greenery, spiced with bits of freshly roasted meats.

He peeled himself a fruit and then selected one for her, his slim dagger held in strong, capable hands. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, catching thoughts at the edge of her mind wondering what those efficient, knowing hands might do to her. . . .

She shoved the errant notion away. Bistane was eager, as always, to put out the hope that he could share her bed, but she had never, never, been tempted to consider it as well. A warmth rose in the pit of her stomach, and she fought to keep it there. She could feel the flush rise in spite of her efforts, between the swell of her bosom and up her throat before she managed to sit back and let a cool breeze from a nearby opened shutter bathe her. Bistane quartered her fruit and arranged it for her convenience without seeming to notice her sudden quietude. After a moment or two of the breeze playing over her, she found her voice again.

“I’ll miss your father’s abilities.”

“You will have them. He knows of the situation within your house and has deemed his independence a better option.” Bistane paused as if judging what to say next, and then added, “Some of the stands of aryns are failing.”

She relaxed a bit then. Bistel had not abandoned her. He would fight his own battle, partnering hers. She might not agree with what Lord Vantane had in mind, now or in the future, but she couldn’t overlook his skill as a warlord. “I understand,” she murmured.

“He thought you might. It might be wise, however,” and Bistane spoke to her ear, whispering, his warm breath stirring her hair and along the curve of her neck, “to mislead the others, particularly ild Fallyn, about his intentions.”

She nodded and leaned forward, away from his mouth and breath and voice, to pick up the fruit he’d rendered for her. A sigh followed her movement. She managed to swing away from him slightly as she straightened. “Until your forces arrive, Lord Bistane, I hope you’ll find time to work with Jeredon and the contingent of archers we need trained.”

“As you will.” His eyes smiled upon her.

She thought she saw a calculation reflected at the back of them, but she could not be sure. He would not be Vaelinar, however, if there were not.

For the rest of their meal, she chose topics of light interest, drawing him out about his new repertoire of songs and the northern weather. They agreed that it was a dry winter, exceedingly so, and because of that, they might be wise to deal with Abayan Diort before the end of spring when it would normally be best to march an army. It seemed that it did not matter how trivial a conversation might be, it would inevitably turn to what loomed in front of them. She ate sparingly and neatly, wanting to be away from Bistane and his eyes that kept an admiring and interested gaze upon her whenever she looked up. She did not understand the sudden current of interest that thrilled through her, nor did she wish him to sense it. Perhaps she needed a tonic. She’d have to find the herbalist and have a quick word with her.

Lara put aside her plates. She touched the back of Bistane’s hand lightly. “I’ve a chore or two before I will be taking the field in practice. Perhaps I will see you about later.”

“That, milady queen, would be my greatest pleasure.” Bistane stood and drew her to her feet. She escaped without a look back but felt his gaze upon her.

"Vaelinar,” declared Nutmeg. She spelled it quietly. "Vaelinar. I think it means a people who are scared of their own shadow.” The cavern echoed faintly with her voice, and the slap of water, but she heard nothing else, not even a breath. She crossed her arms defiantly over her bosom, knowing that Jeredon had to be there, that the staff had seen him go out with his cart and his chair, and that he’d gone out without her. Sunlight skittered fitfully over the mouth of the cave as clouds blew by quickly in a winter wind that seemed to be growing stronger with every gust. She should not have come after him. She knew that. He would laugh at her again, but she couldn’t not have come after him either. Raised with three older brothers, she wasn’t about to let one get an upper hand, even if that male had a Warrior Queen for a sister.

“Perhaps it
means
shadow. Would you then be afraid?” His voice shivered mockingly through the hollows.

She narrowed eyes with vision not yet accustomed to the flickering dark of the cavern. “I have fought Bolgers, raiders and Ravers. I’ve stood toe to toe with three brothers. I’ve Tolby Farbranch for a father and Lily Farbranch for a mother. Why would a shadow scare me?”

A sigh followed her words, or perhaps it was just the waters of the pool lapping along the rim of stone. She tapped her foot impatiently.

Jeredon emerged an arm’s length away to fold them on the stone’s edge and look up at her, his expression aggrieved. “Woman, you disrespect me.”

“Perhaps. Even worse, you disrespect yourself.”

He stammered a word in reply, and then shut his mouth firmly. It was a fine Vaelinar mouth, she thought, well shaped and full, not like a thin-lipped Kernan who always looked as though the harvest had been poor and lean. She sat down so that he would not have to crane his neck to look up at her. The heat of the earth below her that warmed the waters also took away the cold of the morning. A faint fog rose from the pool, wispy and insubstantial, yet hiding the true nature of the cavern.

Finally, Jeredon said, “I do, do I?”

“You do. You’re the heir to a Warrior Queen, not because of your blood but because she chose you for that position.”

He slicked his hair back from his face. “You seem to overlook that heritage.”

“Me? A Farbranch? Where, as the Dwellers love t’ say, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree?” She reached out and pinched his nose. “Lariel is no one’s fool. If she needed Osten or that Bistane or anyone else for an heir at her back, she’d put them there. She’s not stuck with you, near as I can tell. I admit I’m no Vaelinar, thank the Gods, to know how you all do things, but my ears have been filled with talk since I got here.”

Jeredon moved out of reach. “My sister is loyal to a fault.”

“You being the fault?” She rocked back. “I suppose she wears her armor because she’s loyal to it?”

“No, because it may well save her life.”

“Oh, and her judgment in that case is sound enough, is it?”

“There’s a difference between me and her mail.”

“Aye, and that difference is, you’re thicker. She ought to be wearing you about instead!”

Jeredon gave a long blink, then his face twisted to one side, and then he began to laugh despite his efforts to hold it back. Finally, he covered his face with his hands and muttered, “I should know better. Isn’t there a proverb or something about arguing with a Dweller?”

“You’d be meaning the one about the farmer and the great stone in his pasture. He tried a brace of ponies to pull it out, but it wouldn’t budge. So he went to the village and borrowed a team of those great long-horned steers the traders use on their caravans, and they pulled and pulled, but the stone wouldn’t budge. So the farmer thought about it a bit and decided the stone needed convincing. He was a young lad, the farmer, and the land was new to the plow and to his family, being part of a bride price. That huge bit of rock ruined all his plans for plowing and planting and harvesting. So, he went out to have a talk with it about moving to one side or maybe becoming part of the new house’s great room wall or such, but the stone wouldn’t answer him. He sat and argued with it for the better part of the day, then went home when it was dark, determined not to give up. Sure enough, come the dawn, he was back in the pasture arguing with that stubborn bit of granite.”

Jeredon made a smothered sound that she couldn’t quite decipher. Nutmeg raised her eyebrow but continued on. “Well, that newly married farmer was even more obstinate. He went out every day to argue with the rock. Soon the weather began to turn a bit and it became clear to all those who knew farmin’ that the time to get the crops in was nearly past. They urged him to simply plow around the rock and get on with it. Even his wife’s father looked a bit gruffly at him, but he would not give up. And then, one morning after three long, hard weeks of arguing, he rose and trudged down to his pasture. ‘See here,’ he says to the rock. ‘You may be made of stone, but I am made of Dweller stock and I’ll be here arguing with you until the sun turns blue.’ At that, the stone gave out a great, rending groan and split in two, and then again and again and again, till there was nothing left of it but a heap of gravel. So, the farmer kept his word by taking the gravel and putting it into the foundation and wall of his home’s great room once the spring planting was finished.” Nutmeg took a deep breath. “You’ll be meaning that story?”

Jeredon made a strangled sound before managing, “Yes, that’s the one. If not that one, another just like it.”

“You’re sure? Because it might have been the tale about why the Bolgers grew tusks—”

“No. No, no, I’m sure that’s it.”

“You thick-headed dunce. There is no tale about why the Bolgers grew tusks, they were born like that from the beginning!” Nutmeg leaned over, hand outstretched to give Jeredon a thorough dunking, but he ducked away quickly and she overbalanced to find herself falling into the water with a loud splash. She bobbed up quickly like an apple in a barrel, spluttering a bit for breath.

“Now that’s what comes around for trying to manhandle a poor, defenseless cripple.”

Her dress floated about her like a colorful cloud as she began to tread water. Her hands nimble, she unfastened it and pulled it off, tossing it onto the bank she had so recently occupied. It took a bit more doing to pull her boots off and toss them over as well, and by the time she had, her hair had come out of the twist she’d so carefully put it into that morning and cascaded down onto her shoulders.

“I will,” Jeredon offered, “get you a new pair of boots. Those are likely to be ruined.”

“A new pair would be welcome. Those were getting to be a bit thin at the sole, due no doubt to traipsing around after you and your sort on your adventures.”

“My sort? What happened to all the praise you were beginning to heap on me?”

“Changed my mind. You’re a lout, and a great one at that.”

Jeredon pulled back. “Now I’m thickheaded?”

“And you’re not? So tell me this, Jeredon Eladar. You rolled down here in your chair all nice and independent, tipped it over, and slipped into the water—but of the two of us bobbing around all cozy in here now, which one of us is going to be getting back out without help?”

“Well, I. That is. Hmmmm.”

“Is that an answer?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Do that.” And Nutmeg rolled over in the water, her ivory chemise molding to her body as she did so, kicked her legs free, and headed for the shallow part of the pool where she could climb easiest onto the bank. “I do hope you find an answer before you wither completely up.”

“Or turn into gravel.” He grabbed her by the ankle.

He hadn’t lost any of his strength, really, she thought as he pulled her to his side, or the handsome looks of his face except for the white pinched marks around his mouth when the pain bothered him overmuch. And now, with his hair slicked back, she could see the fine points of his ears, and the carved delicacy of his cheekbones in a face that was nonetheless very masculine.

“Now you’re looking at me like that,” Jeredon said quietly.

She stared at him, at eyes that carried no color in the cavern but of the darkness of the water, pooled deep and dark and true. “I cannot help it,” she answered.

“But you have to. There is no place for you at my side.”

“Only if you wish it that way.”

“Nutmeg . . .” and Jeredon suddenly buried his hand in her hair and drew her to him, and then covered her mouth with his, in a long soft kiss that brought her to a moan as she answered it. She wrapped her arms about his neck and curved her body to his, feeling his strength and his need. He broke away long enough to protest, “I cannot feel this way.”