The Dark Ferryman (29 page)

Rivergrace replaced the rock into its niche in the garden wall and dusted off her hands on her skirts as the beautiful Vaelinar rode near, and reined to a halt. Her vibrant green eyes seemed to take no notice of anyone but Jeredon. She tucked a long strand of wild honey hair behind a curved ear.

“Good day, Jeredon Eladar. You look well. Your hair is wet. Has the rain hit here before us for a while?”

“Good day as well, Lady Tressandre, and no, although I think the storm rides your heels. A little rain would be refreshing. I’ve been swimming for exercising.”

Tressandre laughed at him, her voice full of promise more than that of merriment, and her green upon green eyes held a knowing glitter. “A better man than I! Any creek hereabouts will be too cold for my blood.” She assessed Grace then quickly, but her gaze lingered on Nutmeg for quite a long while as Jeredon explained about a mineral pool with heated waters. Tress removed her attention and coiled her whip with neat, graceful movements. “As you describe it, then, a swim would be quite refreshing. Perhaps I might be invited next time?”

“Most assuredly. What have you brought us? Green-broken horses?”

“Only the best from our lands but far from wild. These riderless are archer-trained, for the queen’s bowmen. I heard your force was cut down and that you were training new men. We thought this humble gift from our Stronghold would help in your endeavors while my brother Alton answers the muster as we ild Fallyn were directed.” She gave Jeredon a look through slightly lowered, thick eyelashes.

“If only armies marched as fast as rumors fly,” said Jeredon dryly, “then we would have Diort surrounded within the day.”

“Rumor only, then? My apologies if my spies were so poorly informed.”

“Not misinformed at all, to my misfortune. I sent off a troop of lads I thought well-trained, and they might have been on an open field with battle lines, and not shot at from behind the nearest tree. They were too bold and forgot that they exposed themselves every time they set themselves for a good shot. I’ve been trying to make amends.”

Tressandre tied her whip to her saddle as she gave her reins over to one of her lancers. “Amends are not necessary,” she began, “We only thought to lend our aid.” Her voice faded as one of Lariel’s stable lads dropped a corral pole, and with a sharp whistle, headed her horses into pasture. They responded with snorts and kicks and tails flying, dashed into the grass enclosure where winter’s bitter touch had barely grazed the greenery. Expressionless, she watched her charges sprinting away, letting her finely chiseled features show only her beauty and not her thoughts. When the eager whickers and whinnying died away, a new voice cut through the air.

“Tressandre ild Fallyn. I thought I heard the sound of spurs and whips.”

She looked back over her shoulder idly; one hand twitched as she dropped it to her thigh where her fingers stroked the haft of a sheathed dagger. “Bistane Vantane. I thought I smelled the stable yards. Or is it the middens?”

“If anyone would know the smell of human
velk
, it would be you.”

“I missed your escort at the border.” Tressandre did not turn further, continuing to watch Vantane over her shoulder, her gaze veiled by the fall of her dark honey-colored hair over her brow and down her shoulder and back. Disdain outlined her brow.

“I turned back in disappointment when I saw that the only ild Fallyn who could fight was not among your group.”

“True if you look for the only one who fights on your level. Alton has gone east, as ordered.” Tressandre turned on her heel, then, her gaze sharp upon Bistane. “He would have preferred the chance to even old scores, as no one wishes to ride into battle with more enemies at your back than before you.”

“He would know the proper placement of traitorous enemies, that is certain.”

“Tell me, Bistane, does such bitterness damage your singing voice? It surely must.”

Bistane made a dismissive gesture. “I sing well enough when there is no blade in my flank.”

“That must be difficult since your back is usually turned as you run away.”

“A Vantane is generally too busy on the field to run or to notice whose back is turned which way, something a coward must do at a distance.” Bistane’s words dropped coldly. They stared at one another.

Jeredon coughed. “Truce, the two of you.” He put his hands up, leaning forward in his carriage chair.

Bistane’s lip curled into a half smile as he took a step back from Tressandre, and when he spoke, his tone had become light again. “Why, it has been truce for a century or so, has it not, fair Tressandre? How the seasons scatter before a beauty such as yours.” Bistane leaned upon Jeredon’s cart. “Have a care with this instructress, Jeredon. Her prowess with a bow is indeed without match. She cheats, of course, but that does not make her or any of the Stronghold less effective an archer.”

“Cheats? How?”

Bistane smiled thinly at Nutmeg’s outburst, as though all of them had overlooked her for the moment. “By virtue of her Vaelinar Talents. Perhaps she will demonstate for you, Mistress Farbranch.”

Tressandre’s nostrils flared ever so slightly as she looked down on Nutmeg. Her lips parted a little as if she considered an answer and dismissed it, saying instead, “Jeredon and his nursemaid will get ample evidence as we move to join the muster.”

“My orders,” Jeredon said tightly, “are to remain at Larandaril.”

Her eyebrows flew up in surprise in what, Rivergrace thought, might be the first natural expression she’d seen on the woman in the past moments.

“The queen doubtless has her reasons.” Bistane thumped a hand on Jeredon’s shoulder in sympathy.

“The queen wishes to keep a guard here.”

Tressandre’s face settled into a mask of hard beauty. “Perhaps she needs a demonstration, as well, of my particular Talents.” She reached to her back and withdrew an arrow. She dropped it, but it did not fall. It hovered in the air in front of her. “The Stronghold of ild Fallyn can will an arrow stronger, harder, and truer than any other. So, too, I can drive the queen’s infirm brother.” And she looked to Jeredon who began to rise without his stirring a muscle. “I can bring a king to his feet.”

Nutmeg gasped as Jeredon thrust his hands out to steady himself, inadvertently thrusting her away from him unnoticed as Tressandre brought him effortlessly to his feet without laying a hand upon him. He let out a low groan as he straightened. Rivergrace caught Nutmeg by the arm to steady her as they watched Jeredon stand. It seemed effortless from the Vaelinar, but Grace saw the cords of Tressandre’s neck tighten and the edges of her eyes narrow in concentration. The finest of lines flawed her beautiful face. Nutmeg put her fist to her mouth as Jeredon’s face lightened, and an expression of hope passed over his features before he cleared his throat and his eyes went neutral.

Lariel Anderieon’s voice cut through the sudden quiet. “Well done, Tressandre ild Fallyn, but as Lord Bistane noted, perhaps the queen does have plans. Those plans might include a man who can think whether on his feet or not. While the handful of you greet each other in the stable yards, Tranta Istlanthir has come in by my front door, and he brings dire news which I would wish all of you to know.”

Tranta Istlanthir came from a family which held perhaps the most distinctive marking of any Vaelinar who had come to Kerith, his hair of dark, brillantine blue unchanged down through generations, eyes of dark green upon light green, and skin so fair it held a faint blue reflection of his hair. Rivergrace liked him for his self-deprecating way, sure of himself but not displaying it as many of the Vaelinars did. Although his family’s and his own skills were strong and varied, one still could not imagine him far from his roots, and it was true that one would find him mostly near the cliffs of Tomarq and on the great bay where the city of Hawthorne reigned, overlooking the vast western ocean. While it was true that he held an indisputable affinity for salt water and its shores, he did not often sail. They plied a small fleet for coastal fishing only, and some minor trade from port to port, but the Istlanthirs did not wander far, it being an unspoken law that the salted waters held mysteries which the Vaelinars were loath to explore, and enemies whose attention had strayed for the moment and whom they did not wish to attract. It was also equally true that he was smitten by his Warrior Queen, and that he would do anything for her although she seldom even looked upon him, something Rivergrace could not understand. Tranta was intelligent and held a good sense of humor, his tone usually light unlike the fate-weighted sensibilities of the Stronghold of the ild Fallyn or the House Vantane. Perhaps Lara did not take him seriously, as he did not seem to take himself. He remained one of Grace’s favorite people since their first meetings, and as he saw her approach through the manor’s main hallway, his eyes lit as well, and he made a half bow toward her. He’d given up the cane he’d been using when she saw him last, which meant that his injuries from his great fall off the cliffs of Tomarq while attending the Jewel had healed. The ocean had cradled him when she could have smashed him asunder, but still his injuries had been considerable for a fall from that height.

Or perhaps he had merely decided a cane was too cumbersome, and a limp would be merely an acceptable character trait. Rivergrace found her face lighting up as she dipped a curtsy to him, Nutmeg on her heels. He had offered once to trade secrets with her on the vagaries of salted water versus fresh and the Goddesses and Gods thereof, but they’d never had the opportunity. She’d thought him half-joking anyway, as his Talent lay in the fire of the great Jewel which shielded the coast with its fierce eye which reflected the heat and fire of the heavens to scour the oceans of any offenders as they tried to close upon the shore. Still, she thought he held a love for the sea. With hair and eyes like that, how could he not?

“Mistresses Farbranch,” he noted, as Nutmeg joined Rivergrace in a quick bob. “It takes the weariness from my labors away to see you both. Nutmeg, I hear you have tamed our Warrior Prince and that he is healing admirably under your touch.”

Nutmeg’s face warmed into a blush, but she pinched her full lips shut and would not say a word as Jeredon wheeled past her, Tressandre at his right arm. Tranta watched them go by, and raised an eyebrow. Then he inclined his head to the girls. “Whoever said that man’s nature was as inconstant as the sea and tide, certainly knew what he was talking about. Sit with me, so that I can swear I have never had a pair of prettier guards?”

Lara stopped by them. “They will not be attending, Tranta, as sorry as I am to disappoint you. I’m certain Nutmeg has duties elsewhere, and I need Grace to find Sevryn as it seems that he is the only one not here yet.”

Dismissed, Rivergrace could only let Tranta press his hand upon her forearm as she gathered up Nutmeg and left the conference room. Un-characteristically quiet, Nutmeg let herself be shepherded down the hall and into the downstairs wing before she took a great, long sobbing breath and stopped, putting her back to the wall. Rivergrace bent down to her sister and saw her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Meg. What is it?”

“He pushed me away. He never looked back. Grace.” And Nutmeg tilted her face up, sorrow beginning to cascade down her cheeks. She put her hands out and lifted them slowly.
“I can’t do that for him.”

“You know, and I know, and Lara knows . . . there’s isn’t an arrow let fly that won’t fall to earth sooner or later. He can’t depend upon her.”

“But he will.”

“The queen won’t let him. Not for long, anyway.”

“He’s headstrong as an old billy goat, and he wants to go with the men. He has no intention of staying if he can help it, legs or no legs, cart or no cart.”

“And can you blame him?”

Nutmeg took the square of linen Grace fished out of her skirt pocket and noisily blew her nose before answering, “No.” She inhaled, hiccuped, then swallowed tightly. “It’s what we’ve been working for.”

“Then his intentions have little to do with Tressandre. He means to go, one way or another, don’t you see? And when his eyes clear a bit, he’ll see, too.”

“D’you think?”

Rivergrace put her hands on Nutmeg’s shoulders and shook her, just a little. “We’ve brothers. We know what idiotic and wonderful beasts they are.”

“And we can run circles about any one of them.” Nutmeg tried to make a smile, it came out crooked and damp. “The trouble is . . . the trouble is, I love him.”

It struck her then, the implication of Meg’s words, and what Grace had brought to their family. It was her fault, all of it, the terrible disruption of their lives. Losing their home to raiders and Ravers who came looking for her strange blood, to their forced migration to the city of Calcort where her father ran a winery and cider house. Even beyond that to the very Silverwing River where Nutmeg had pulled her from the waters. It was she who’d brought the Vaelinars to her Dweller family doorstep, and there was nowhere that this love would not be difficult and frowned upon. Yet she knew Nutmeg’s heart and that she had not planned or schemed for this, and that her sister could no more deny it than she could deny bringing breath into her body. It was her fault and how could she undo it without damaging Meg?

“I know you do. I know.” She drew Nutmeg to her and held her very close and tight for long moments. She had no powers of foretelling, no magical talent for seeing the future, nor did Nutmeg, but both of them knew that it could come to no good end. Yet, here it was, and couldn’t be changed, and they’d have to deal with it. She wondered only if her love for Sevryn could be as misled.

Nutmeg said fiercely, “She would not have dismissed me like that if I’d been somebody.”

“You are somebody.”

“A nursemaid. If I had more familiarity with being a queen and having a household, I could figure how low that was, but I think it might be lower than a rotten apple in a barrel.” Nutmeg’s mouth twisted.