The Four Forges (18 page)

“Not that.” Keldan turned slowly on one heel. “Listen,” he said, and cocked his head to the wind. More like Lily in looks than any of them, even Nutmeg, he had a streak that none of the others had. Perhaps it had come from her side of the family, though Garner never thought of his mother that way, but Keldan looked as if he could run the hills and high mountains like a stag in autumn. He had this affinity for wild things. Garner had once seen him whistle down a hawk from the sky, the predator diving in and wheeling around before gliding to a low branch nearby where Keldan and the bird had eyed each other a moment before the hawk took to the air again. Tolby had had a free-roaming youth, but nothing in him ran like the blood in Keldan’s veins.

Keldan turned one hand slowly. “Hear them?”

Garner shrugged. He heard a faint piping accompanied by the broken sound of rough singing and dancing in the field roped off for merrymaking, but he could almost swear that wasn’t what Keldan heard. He watched his brother stand transfixed in the middle of the lane and took his arm to lead him off to the side, when he heard and saw it too.

A slow, deliberate thunder of hooves. Bullwhips snapping in the air over the pounding, and whistles light yet piercing, and even singing too. Riders drove their mounts into the small town, dust clouds rising from shining hooves, a small herd of tall sleek elegant horses racing ahead of the riders. No shaggy plains horses or mountain ponies these, but satiny-skinned, nostrils-flared, slender-legged hot bloods. His pulse drummed to the running horses, and his gaze fixed on the lead rider. She was elegant, beautiful, her shining hair drawn back from her face as she snapped her whip about the heads of the free-running steeds in front of her. He thought his heart would stop entirely as she rode down on him.

“Vaelinars,” breathed Keldan at his side. “With their tashya horses,” he added, jostling Garner, and Garner found himself able to breathe at last. The Vaelinars swept past him, and the lead rider turned her head to look at them. He saw hair spun of wild honey streaked with silvery gold, and eyes of verdant green flecked with smoke and leaf green, and skin of translucent freshness offset by lips the color of deepest blood. She wore black smoke and silver, tight and silken about her curves. The jolt of her glance locked Garner’s feet to the ground, and his heart fluttered for a moment with her mouth curving as if knowing his thoughts before her tall, iron-gray mount carried her past. She swung her arm about, cracking the whip again. Standing slightly in her stirrups, her whole body moved with a kind of languid, sensual grace, belying the strength it needed to handle such a whip, and with such a delicate precision. It popped over the pricked ears of high-flung heads, and the horses snorted in answer.

She was the most beautiful woman in the world.

Keldan tugged on him. “Who is she? Who is she?”

It took a moment for him to gather breath and thoughts enough to answer. He shook his head in wonder. “I don’t know,” Garner answered simply.

 
“That is Tressandre ild Fallyn,” a voice said in Sevryn’s ear. “There will be trouble before nightfall, Accords or no Accords. Watch yourself, Queen’s Hand.”

His eye caught by the spectacle of the riders moving swiftly past, Sevryn turned almost too late to catch a glimpse of the shadow who’d whispered in his ear, slipping out of view, but he caught sight of him from the corner of his eye—tall, storm-colored, with hair tied back in a long braid—and knew that Daravan had been murmuring advice to him. Daravan, little more than a hermit or a rumor in the matter of things, whispering advice into his ear. The spectacle and the knowledge troubled him even more than seeing Stronghold ild Fallyn ride in. At Lariel’s court and on the streets, Sevryn kept to the quiet side of matters, looking like little more than the mixed blood he was, and without the startling eyes of the Vaelinars, the mark of elven blood that carried magic and power within it. He’d never known of another who held magic without the eyes, so even if he was seen with Lariel and Jeredon, another Vaelinar would dismiss his value.

He had, perhaps, after years with the Warrior Queen, developed an odd sensibility. Daravan was like his old mentor, nonaligned and apparently rootless, seemingly everywhere and nowhere at once, with motives as murky as his exact whereabouts. That Daravan was here, today, in advance of the ild Fallyn brooked no good, he decided. Even more unsettling was the knowledge that the elder Vaelinar knew who he was and what Sevryn did, for he traded on his aspect of being a gutter brat, a bastard of little or no use to anyone. And to think he’d merely stopped by to hear a bit of the local gossip, away from the larger cities, following the trade roads as if he were himself a vagabond peddler.

Life with Lariel and Jeredon had proved to be rich—rich with compassion, care, intrigue, and action. It held all the warmth of a family, and the brother and sister held him close in their confidence and trust. Though he still sometimes felt the sting of the Kobrir dagger in his side, and healers told him a splinter of the dagger might have worked its way into a rib bone, they’d gotten the poison out of him and mending had only been a matter of time. Neither sister nor brother had stinted in grilling him while they cared for him, and he kept his silence except when necessary, revealing no one, dead or alive. Still, they eked out a profile of him, and then Lariel had decided to put him to use, during which time he’d proved what he had not spilled during their interrogations. He was loyal, and loved them both to a fault, and would never betray their faith in him.

He’d never been happier. Or in more danger. Yet Sevryn could not regret the balancing of his life. He’d gladly give up safety for fulfillment, and had, over and over. Now, as he wandered the Spring fair, watching the Dwellers and Kernans bustling about, he listened for word of discontentment, of hatred, of fear, of despair. Since resettlement from the borders of her lands, she’d kept a keen eye out for the repercussions of that action. So far, there had been little, particularly with Ravers harrowing where settlements had once stood, death and bloodshed avoided by happenstance. Not that they would be thanked for sparing those they had moved. No, they could not expect that. Lariel had taught him that the Vaelinars’ world was different from Kerith itself, and often they had to bridge that distance, or they would never understand the beings with whom they now shared an existence. He had never realized before that he straddled two worlds.

With a stifled sigh, he turned his eyes away from the vision of the ild Fallyn Stronghold riding in, and leaned a shoulder into a tavern doorway, as if gauging the crowds and brews available. With a practiced eye, he could tell who drank and why, the why being the importance of it. To celebrate or drown misery, to drink for joy or need, and a look about the room told him this was a town of happy if curious folk, with talk about the Vaelinars already brewing about the edges.

Why would Daravan mention the Accords? Vaelinars did not kill other Vaelinars not only because of the accords, but because of the sheer necessity of needing their own bloodlines to survive around them. The first centuries of bitterness and contention had settled long ago. What purpose would Daravan have in setting that into his thoughts now?

Having lingered too long in the tavern doorway to simply leave, his mind distracted, Sevryn entered and flipped a crown bit to the ’tender, taking a wooden mug of brew with him as he sauntered back outside and made his way down the small lane toward the fairing grounds. On this bright spring day, after a long and harsh winter, everything seemed to be in order. A handful of Bolgers pushed past him, one turning back to nod an apology, before the brutes headed toward the barns and stock pens. Sevryn lifted his mug in reflection to hide the grimace he could not contain whenever he encountered them. City-wise Bolgers, though rough and crude, more or less adapted to civilization, but in the wild, whatever veneer they had vanished quickly. Sneakers, he had little or no use for them at all, though he did treat with them for the sake of the Vaelinars. There is a balance, he’d had pounded into his head, for all beings.

Keeping himself to a saunter, he walked the edge of the streets, making a note of all he saw. Long, cold winter gone, yet these folk seemed to have prospered, which would be good news to carry home. He wondered yet again if what nagged at Lariel might be unfounded, but he knew better. Her senses were honed like the keenest of blades, and if she felt something ill taking root and prospering on its own, she would be right. His job would only be to confirm it so that it could be fought and uprooted for good. Turning his back on the small town—village, more than anything else with only its river and trade route importance elevating its status—he made note of the banners flying at the campgrounds on the open meadows, and his mouth dried.

Stronghold ild Fallyn he’d seen ride in. Its black flag, limned with silver with a bend in the form of a silver dagger, snapped defiantly in the wind. Across from it flew the banner of Stronghold Istlanthir, sworn enemy of the ild Fallyns, held apart from them only by the Accords, and Sevryn realized that Kever and Tranta had, no doubt, come to keep an eye on the Fallyns or perhaps to extract a long-awaited vengeance on Tressandre or Alton. On a slight hummock, over both, he could see the pavilion with the colors of the House Hith-aryn, and the emblem of its heir Bistane. His father Bistel was the oldest living Vaelinar on Kerith and still looked in his prime, silver-blue hair cropped close to his head, setting off dark blue eyes that blazed with intensity and lightning streaks of light blue. His son Bistane held the same eyes, if not the silvery hair. And neither was opposed lightly.

He groaned softly. All of them with blood hotter than that of the fine tashya horses tethered beside the accommodations or pacing inside the stockyard corrals. It would be too much to hope there would be no trouble. Almost with reluctance, he made his leisurely way to the fairgrounds, attracting little attention and observing as he went. At the outskirts, a clapboard booth attracted a handful of Bolgers, and he eyed it as he passed, without showing it had drawn his attention. A leathery, older Bolger squatted in the center, showing forge work for sale, spread out on a woven pony blanket, the aromas of both beasts hanging in the air. He had bits and buckles, latches and keys, all manner of ironwork save for weapons. Sevryn made a note on that, knowing that the weapons were undoubtedly available, too, but sold elsewhere and at other times. As he drew away, the smithy Bolger pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing a forearm that had been branded long ago by carelessness or purpose, the scar bleached white with age, stark against his dark skin. It struck him for a long moment, and he decided it was only because of the need to remember the being. That Bolger would not be hard to find later.

He buried that thought in the back of his mind along with myriad other observations he would carry back to his employer. Ahead of him lay the true fair: sturdy tables, booths, and awnings, colorful as the newly blossoming flowers, and filled with folk celebrating the season. Even the haughty Galdarkans had come from the east, or a few of them had, their tall strong forms mingled in the crowd, with their bright overcoats of dark blue heralded with gold stars, remnants of the lost empire. Sevryn could see a few Vaelinars as well and some Kernans tall enough to be half-breeds like himself, but the lanes were abundant with the smaller and ebullient Dweller stock who thrived in these hills and valleys. Their excitement bubbled about them. Not bothering to contain a smile, Sevryn wound slowly through the throngs, enjoying the celebration.

He bought a cheese turnover, hot from the outdoor ovens, and tossed it from hand to hand to cool it enough for eating. The cheeses, both mellow and sharp, dripped from flaky pastry to his mouth as he nibbled contentedly. Someone jostled his shoulder. With quick hands, he saved the last of his morsel, gobbled it down, and turned to see who’d moved so closely by him, smelling of the faintest of riverlilies.

A hunched form brushed past, swathed in old, worn, dark robes with frayed hem and flanked by a curvaceous Dweller lass. A grandmother, no doubt, or village woman of some importance, leaning on the young girl as one would a cane. He glimpsed deep crimson boot leather, slender and sleek, the footwear at immediate odds with the hooded garb. It caught his attention. Sevryn sidled closer nonchalantly.

Tossing the last of his cheese turnover in the air and gulping it down, he sketched his way behind them, casually, turning away when they stopped at a booth, not wishing to be seen as much as he wished a clearer view. The back of his neck itched. He heard a muttering gripe about the Bolger booths at the outskirts of the fair, and registered that, even as he glanced down at the latest in halters and harnesses.

“Cursed Stinkers. They’re fouler than the wallows at the butcher’s yards.”

“Mebbe so, but that’s a good lot. Earning their keep by hard work, ’stead of banditing.”

“Fah. Only good Bolger is a dead one, just like those slavin’ elves.”

He did not catch sight of the two men growling at each other. Instead, someone bumped the pair he followed, and the old woman spun about, catching her balance as she stood straight, her robes swinging open and he froze, stung by the revelation.

She looked like a caged bird, suddenly freed. The dark robe winged about her, caught in the spring breeze, swirling high and then cascading down to mask her again. But before it did, he caught sight of lustrous chestnut hair trailing over one shoulder, a slender hand clasped with that of the shorter girl, her face lit in surprise and delight at the laughter and endless talk of her companion. The sunlight brought out golden-red strands of hair tumbled among the darker auburns and brunettes as she caught her balance with unassuming charm. Her gown of simple weave matched that of the bubbly talker, gracing a willowy frame that ought never to have been hidden by drab and fraying robes, yet had been. She gathered herself quickly, even as the Dweller lass called her sister, and moved in to close her robes and pat her down, and they resumed their pairing of old woman and lass, shuttering away the vision from his sight.