Treason's Shore (86 page)

She’d left the sheet and quilt on the bed as long as she could, because they retained his smell, until her own had overborne it. Things . . . rooms . . . home. How much of “home” is bound up in people as well as places? With Fareas-Iofre in the royal city, she almost had all those who meant most to her. No, she didn’t have Whipstick, or her old friend Liet, now married to one of the Riders with a little daughter.

After a few days, Fareas-Iofre settled into their lives as if she’d always lived there.

As well. Hadand was ill in the mornings again, and Tdor had slowed so much that Fareas-Iofre took on the Gunvaer work, familiar from eight years before. On the third morning of Fareas-Iofre’s visit, Tdor oversaw the introduction of a new set of fifteen-year-old girls, but she was impatient with her own lumbering gait. Especially when twinges and jabs made her gasp—the baby must be larger than a two-year-old to kick so hard!

As Tdor trudged up the stairs after an exceptionally long, trying day, her back aching at every step, she thought wistfully about Tenthen Castle, which was maybe a quarter the size of this castle. She still missed Tenthen, though she knew she would hate living there with Dannor and Branid. She’d become accustomed to the royal city, and she loved working with the girls and knew they responded to her just by the way that they quieted when she entered a crowded room. She saw respect in their faces, even these days when she waddled, as her hip bones had a disconcerting habit of shifting in and out of their sockets.

The prospect of dinner alone with Fareas buoyed her. What a relief, to be able to talk about such things again, without being afraid she’d hurt Hadand or Evred. Hadand had already gone to bed, and Evred was in a long meeting with the Guild Council and harbor representatives.

But when Tdor finally reached her suite, it was to discover that her stomach had closed. She hadn’t eaten all day, but the prospect of food was not appealing. She was overheated, uncomfortable, the suite was stuffy.
Summer’s coming too soon
, she thought as she trundled up into the alcoves to open the few west windows. Then she propped the doors open in hopes of getting air into the windowless middle chamber.

As she opened the door to the small room that Signi had lived in, she caught a faint whiff of Signi’s personal scent, which had always reminded her a little of clove wine. Tdor missed Signi. Not the deep and unending worry that wound about Inda through waking and sleeping, but it was strong enough to make Tdor’s throat tighten.

She leaned in the doorway and stared at the empty bed frame, knowing she would be glad if Inda returned and found Signi there.
Life is so fragile,
she thought.
And so is happiness. Signi, I hope you are safe, wherever you are, and I hope you find your way back to us
.

She wiped her eyes, wondering why her emotions were so like a spring storm, as she shuffled back to the central room. It had gained furniture, but nothing was ever going to mask its strange shape unless it was rebuilt, and Tdor knew Inda would never ask Evred to do that. The girls had made mats for her and Inda as gifts, and Evred had given them a fine new table after the crown debts were paid. Maybe hangings? Yes. If Dannor could organize a tapestry-making, why couldn’t Tdor? Only where did you begin . . . and when?

Fareas-Iofre had settled neatly at the table, uncovering the dishes. Tdor lowered herself to her mat, feeling more ungainly than ever. Stupid mats! She shifted her legs in a futile effort to make herself more comfortable. She would not whine, even to herself. “Is a sense of home bound up in childhood memories?” she asked.

Fareas tipped her head, the exact same way Inda did when he was thoughtful. “I think it can be in some. But then a sense of home varies so much from person to person.”

“Was Tenthen your home, or Darchelde, or Fera-Vayir?”

“Darchelde. Until I realized that it was more habit than conviction, oh, about the time all of you were in your teens. I realized I wouldn’t go back if it was offered.” Fareas smiled, her cheeks dimpling. “Part of that was knowing if I went back, nothing would be the same. Some of my sense of home was bound up in my companions, who had all changed as much as I had.”

A sharp twinge in Tdor’s back caused her to grimace and lean forward. “Is mother love the same for everybody? Does it sometimes not come?”

Fareas smiled into Tdor’s anxious face—the same anxious expression Tdor had shown at age five when she worried about whether dogs got their feelings hurt if people called them ugly.

“Motherhood is unconditional love forever, for most,” Fareas said. “Not for all. But I think it’s safe to say for most, at least in the beginning. And most of the time, the child mirrors it right back.”

Tdor endured another twinge at the base of her spine. Could it be—no. Hadand had said you felt your lower belly muscles pull. This pain was all in her lower back, a more intense version of what she felt at the end of a long day on her feet.

“But if you raise them well, that singular love for you erodes in the child and spreads to other people. Other things. The child—I will say a son, as others raise our girls—a boy has to change if he’s to survive. So he looks away from you to friends, and boys at the academy, and lovers, and then to those he gathers around him and to whom he owes allegiance.”

Another pang, much sharper this time. Tdor’s pelvic bones glowed with pain, causing a spring of sweat on her forehead.
I already love my baby as fiercely as one can love
. “How can you bear it? Their turning away, I mean?” she asked, though she knew it was foolish, that time and gradual change made everything bearable, or how could people survive?

“Because
your
love will never change. You take whatever the children give you and cherish it, and if the children go away, you cherish your memories.” Fareas’s eyes narrowed. “Tdor, are you feeling birth pangs?”

“No. It’s my lower back.” Tdor drew in a deep, shaky breath. “But oh, it hurts.” A cramp seized her lower parts in an iron vise, and a gush of warm wetness spread under her. “Uh oh.” She strangled a laugh. “Send for Noren?”

As it happened Tdor’s body had done most of its work already, so the baby made his appearance before Noren even got there, though she came at a braid-flapping run. Fareas and the young Runner on door duty (now practiced with Hastred-Sierlaef) cleaned and dressed him. Once Tdor had seen her son, kissed and held him, submitted to being cleaned up, she dropped into a profoundly deep sleep.

Fareas smiled down at her, suspecting how long Tdor had been quietly feeling discomfort. Like Inda, Tdor rarely acknowledged physical ills.
I did not raise them that way,
she thought, holding the babe close;
I taught them to be sensible, to heed the body’s needs
.

She wondered as she took little Jarend up into the window alcove and sat upon the stone seat, if she’d modeled that behavior, all unknowing. She looked down at the newborn, who had turned his face toward the light. He blinked, staring in that disconcertingly opaque way of babies new to the world, and a rush of emotion seized Fareas, the ache in arms and chest that for her defined the powerful upwelling of love.

But this is not my baby,
she thought.
I will not see him grow. I will always love him, but to him I will only be a distant old granddam, possibly of some utility but certainly of no interest
.

His arm wiggled, the delicate fingers opening and closing. She bent close and nuzzled Inda’s boy softly, pressing kisses all over his face. He responded immediately, his head jerking as he tried to see her.

I will pour love into you while I can,
she thought.
Even if you never know it’s my love, I trust it will pool inside you, adding to the well that you will draw on someday when it is your turn to give.

Chapter Seventeen

I
NDA looked up from the slip of paper in his hand, happiness making him giddy. A son, a Jarend! Oh, to be home again.

But he wasn’t. He was the Harskialdna, with this battle between him and any chance of ever getting home again. He tucked the note into his pocket to reread later and bent over the mirror chart.

He noted with a neat chalk mark the landmark the lookout had just spotted. Now they could orient themselves with reference to the sizable detachment of Venn crossing toward Bren behind them, and could in turn report Barend’s approximate position with reference to the Venn, when he wrote to ask next, as he’d already done twice.

“I wish we had eyes in Bren,” Inda muttered to the map, his hand sliding to the locket swinging inside his shirt. Could he write Evred for more details? Except what would he ask?
I just want to go home
.

Fox walked into the cabin then. “On your feet,” he said, and Inda grinned. Drill really was better with Fox, Inda had discovered. It was worth the occasional numbness and tingles down his arm from his right shoulder to get the best workout he’d ever had.

Fox’s brows rose at the sight of Inda’s hand gripping that locket round his neck. “Are you really bound to Evred Montrei-Vayir that tight?”

Inda dropped his hand and mumbled something too low to catch under the sound of the rain and the working of the ship. But Fox got the gist in the words “wife” and “son.”

Inda’s tone was resigned, not reproachful. As he vanished out the cabin door, Fox paused, annoyed with himself. He was never going to shift Inda from that unswerving loyalty; maybe his gibes were strengthening it.

He followed Inda out and said, “You’ve been leading left-handed. That a whim?”

Inda looked up, blinking the fine rain out of his face. His shoulders dropped just enough for Fox to see that they’d been braced. Yes, it was time to leave the subject of Evred Montrei-Vayir back in Iasca Leror. Inda had not brought it up since his arrival and his relay of the Marlovan fleet idea. Fox was disgusted with himself.

Inda flexed his right hand, hesitant to talk about it. What was the use? He hated whining. “Catches sometimes.”

“Maybe we should have a little left-handed drill, eh?”

Over the next few days, as the variable winds shifted gradually north and more west, Durasnir hoped Seigmad had better winds on the other side of the strait.

A day outside of Bren, Durasnir had drawn in his blockade and all waited on station as the
Cormorant
lookout reported the scout
Cormorant White
sighted, just where expected.

Durasnir had hot spice-milk and fresh food waiting, knowing from days of old that returning scouts liked coming back to food from home.

Rain plunketed against the sails overhead and spattered the deck, damping down the seas as the craft rounded to under the lee of the flagship. The two scouts, dressed in the manner of Bren sailors, clambered aboard. They were young, nondescript, and Durasnir trusted them; their (spoken) orders had been to only use scroll-cases under dire need, so he awaited their report. Erkric would probably be hearing it at the same time Durasnir did, but at least there would be no tampering with spoken words the way Erkric could tamper with scroll-cases.

The scouts tramped into the cabin that Durasnir had to himself again, shedding water at every step.

Byarin sat at his desk, apparently busy with dispatches, his bulk hunched over the work. He flicked a look Durasnir’s way and nodded minutely: Erkric had ordered Byarin to place a spiderweb. As expected.

“I assume I will find a remnant of the Brennish navy waiting for us in the harbor, Scout Adin?” Durasnir asked for the sake of the spiderweb. His blockade had been almost criminally inadequate—yet another proof of how ill-prepared this venture was.

“Not even that. The last of them slipped out during a thunderstorm a couple weeks ago,” Adin said, not hiding his regret. He, too, knew the blockade had been stretched too thin and that its movements had been fairly well reported by the swarm of Brennish fishers.