Treason's Shore (59 page)

Barend walked to the captain’s deck, rubbing his neck. Evred’s locket had vanished during one of the fights, leaving a gash where the metal chain had ripped his skin. When he saw blood dripping down his hand, he twisted his sash around his palm. The sash was ruined anyway.

Fox emerged from the cabin, looking about with faint approval at the gradual reappearance of order. “Well?”

Barend moved to the stern rail, sweeping his glass in a circle.

Fox turned his way. “There’s only one reason the Venn would retreat like that.”

“I suppose you aren’t going to say ‘Because they were beaten.’ ” In the golden glow of the distant fires, Barend’s smoke-smeared face was wry.

Fox lifted his chin. “Custom maintains they fight to the death except when ordered to retreat and regroup. That means they intend to come back for another fight.”

Barend’s eyes widened, reflecting the many fires spread over the sea. “Tonight? Tomorrow? Half their fleet is in flames.”

“I don’t know when.” Fox tipped his head back toward their own fleet. Not a single ship had escaped damage. “I want to think it through. Let’s set sail for Freedom Island before Deliyeth and her good citizens get the bright idea of ridding themselves of pirates next.”

Barend leaned on the rail, fingering his neck. “Not arguing. I’m all for Freedom Island. We can repair and rebuild. Yes, and train. But what are you going to think out? You know what the Venn will do next?”

“No idea. Except that they’re sure to have a defense against smoke ships next time. Have to think out how Ramis has been right about everything. So far.” He’d told Barend a little of what Ramis had said, when he showed him the
Knife
, waiting in a secluded cove.

Barend’s thin brows shot up. “He can see into the future?”

“No. Said he can’t. I believe him. It’s more that he knew where the pieces in the game would move.”

“So?” Barend winced and rubbed his neck. “What? You want to figure out the next move?”

“I’m going to figure out the game.”

Chapter Thirty-six

A
BYARN Erkric’s teeth ached. When the ache built to little licks of flame through the backs of his eyes, he consciously unclenched his teeth and loosened his jaw.

Below, silken ribbons described sinuous patterns in the air as the black-clad hel dancers tumbled with eerie grace, lithe figures shrouded to be genderless as they were supposed to be invisible. The symbols they twirled and fluttered and flashed signified place, time, mountains, water, wings, castles. Ships. Above them, the rich, sonorous voice of the unseen skalt intoned the long verses that the audience saw enacted below.

Erkric checked the king, in whose unblinking eyes tiny reflections leaped and twirled. Erkric had sat through “Drakan Cross Worlds” more times than he could count, but it was safe. And it made sense for Rajnir to request this recital. Kings liked it, everyone knew that: it supported kingship, order.
What could be more steadying than the origins of Venn glory?
he thought as a group of the black dancers leaped through the air behind the captain of the
drakan
fleet, tiny streamers in their hands indicating the Golden Path across worlds.

There must be no repeat of the Loc disaster. His teeth clenched again when he thought of that recital, presented the month after Rajnir’s coronation. A ruinously costly performance in verse and dance, wild with thunderstorms and deluges, dragons descending out of the mountains, the words rife with fire and steel: the spectators had been struck into amazement at the time. And when it was over, scarcely had they left Loc Hall, their hoods over their faces, than they began whispering about Rainorec.

He could not blame Loc House. You could not suborn the hel dancers or their skalts. If you asked for a new recital, they gave you a new recital. You paid for it, but could not dictate anything beyond the cost. Loc House had spent ten years’ income to celebrate the new king; they had not intended trouble, not after their Hyarl flew his blood eagle on Sinnaborc the summer before the southern fleet’s return. After which they all submitted to having their hair cut off, and iron collars fitted round their throats while they waited for Rajnir to be crowned king. Their only desire was to do the new king honor. Every one of them had abased him-or herself most abjectly before the throne, wearing their iron collars and coarse shit-brown thrall tunics, begging for pardon.

Rajnir had to show mercy, or the rest of the Houses would have whispered even more. It was traditional: the new king was offered a great entertainment by those restored to their former glory. Heeding tradition was comforting, it signaled strays returned to the fold, the establishment of proper hierarchy and order.

But the spiderwebs revealed the truth, whispered in halls and behind hands:
The hel skalts and dancers harbingered Rainorec for the new reign
.

Three months a king and already there was trouble. Ever since that damn woman escaped . . .

Pain shot through Erkric’s jaw again when he remembered Biddan’s bloody corpse. Erkric had been desperate enough to risk making contact with Norsunder, a terrible risk and an even more terrible cost, in case they had taken Biddan’s soul, identity, memories. Had Jazsha Signi Sofar talked before she killed Biddan? Why had the torturer let her loose? Was it part of the methods that Erkric had never wanted to hear any details of?

But all Yeres of Norsunder did was stand there in the gateway to the Garden of the Twelve and laugh and laugh, her laughter still ringing in Erkric’s head when he woke from the resulting faint, with blood crusted in his ears. And nothing to show for his effort.

He stirred impatiently. Though he had access to the king’s chambers at last, how could he get the old magic dismantled, and his own spells put in place? He had not counted on having to constantly mind Rajnir, and keep him away from everyone else, plus see to the enormous load of king’s duties—not to mention the queen’s duties—as he’d fended off the Houses’ offers of royal partners. Who would have thought the damned people would have so many civil cases built against one another waiting for a queen to judge?

A buzz against his hip: scroll-case. A warning shot through him. He never let the thing out of his sight or physical contact anymore. He still did not know how much that damned Valda had learned . . .

Leaning back to keep Rajnir between himself and any prying eyes among the Hyarls in the first tier, he eased the scroll-case out of his pocket. He thumbed the catch and stared down at the paper lying in it.

Pain again. Erkric unclenched his teeth. Another disaster. And Durasnir issuing orders! Of course it was within his realm of duty, but those “further orders”?

Those must come from the king. Not from Durasnir, whom everyone watched. He spoke the right words, but were they empty? Yes, they were empty, Erkric thought in disgust. The more people gabbled about Drenskar and Honor and Ydrasal, the more they meant for everyone else to be observant. Or to hear them being observant.

There were two threats to Rajnir’s kingship: Valda and Durasnir.

Erkric knew with a liar’s conviction that the southern fleet commander’s oaths and promises were empty. You say what you have to say and watch for weakness.

Unfortunately, dig as he might, Erkric had not found a scrap of evidence of Durasnir taking part in any treasonous talk or he’d be picked bones up on Sinnaborc by now. Durasnir was so powerful there had to be not only treason spoken, but believable witnesses to hear it. There could be no more disasters like Signi Sofar’s trial.

Durasnir was suspicious. Erkric was certain of that from the stiff manner in which Durasnir handled himself around the new king, an astonishing contrast to his avuncular, even paternal, fondness for Rajnir in days of old. Erkric was also certain that, just as much as he needed proof against Durasnir’s treason that would be strong enough to convince the Houses so did Durasnir seek proof that Rajnir was not himself.

Erkric turned his attention back to the stage, but he did not see the black-clad men and women symbolizing the
drakan
ships crossing worlds. Irritation made him long to be alone. So much to do! He needed to be three people: one to guard Rajnir and provide the signs for suitable responses, one to be alert to the machinations of Durasnir and his like, and the third to remove the old wards over the king’s rooms and replace them with Erkric’s own. If only he could get Rajnir away . . .

Away. Out of the Twelve Towers. But it could not seem a retreat because a young king desiring isolation right after his coronation would be seen by all as an act of weakness, of hiding. His leaving the Twelve Towers had to be perceived as an act of power.

If only Goerael would contrive another uprising! But things there were disgustingly quiet—

As Erkric gazed impatiently at the fluttering ribbons symbolizing the Golden Tree, an idea bloomed. Oh, what could be more perfect? Just as the first king crossed the world under the banner of Ydrasal, so the new king would restore his empire under the Royal Banner.

No one could fault that, not even Durasnir!

Erkric could shift back and secure the king’s suite (which would supposedly be sealed) while he was thought to be in Rajnir’s shipboard cabins. It had worked quite well during the attempted invasion—about the only thing that
had
worked.

With a pleasure inverse to the irritation of the past three months—the past three years—Erkric envisioned the throne room, Rajnir seated on the throne in white and silver beneath the banner of kingship, the Golden Tree. And Stalna Hyarl Fulla Durasnir kneeling on the stone of the dais, bending his stiff neck before the invisible torc of the king’s will as he became Oneli Stalna, commander of the entire fleet.

How long did it take to ready the southern fleet when they went south the first time? Erkric thought back to the chief shipwright saying to the old king, “It will take three years to properly equip ships and men ...”

I’ll give him one year to raise the entire navy
.

That would keep the troublemaking Houses busy, and in a year’s time—a quiet year for Erkric, so he could concentrate on what must be done—there would be a magnificent launch under the Golden Tree banner. Then the Oneli could spend another year—or two or three—regaining what they never should have lost in the first place.

Erkric chuckled.

And if a fleet commander couldn’t somewhere along the way suffer a heroic death in battle, what good was a glorious war?

PART TWO

Chapter One

F
NOR saw herself in a dream.

She was a child again, looking out the window of her small bedchamber at the deep blue of twilight, yet the sunlight poured in golden shafts through the window, warm as milk, glistening like a beeswax candle flame.