Kari's Reckoning (The Rose Shield Book 4) Read online

  Kari’s Reckoning

  The Rose Shield: Book Four

  Copyright © 2017 D. Wallace Peach

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  ISBN-13: 978-1635356908

  Cover Art © Cover design by Deranged Doctor Design

  www.derangeddoctordesign.com

  To my husband

  for his endless support

  of my forays into the imagination.

  Acknowledgments

  There are many who helped this book on its journey from concept to completion. Many blessings to my dedicated beta readers and to readers everywhere who offer their encouragement and support along the way. Special thanks to my wonderful friend Erik Tyler whose careful read caught no less than a billion typos. Finally, a loving hug for my husband, Randy, who year after year supports my all-consuming passion for words. I owe you all my heartfelt gratitude.

  Table of Contents

  Kari's Reckoning

  Map

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Epilog

  About the Author

  Books by D. Wallace Peach

  Ready for another adventure?

  Map

  Chapter One

  Darkest Night.

  Catling wandered through the nighttime corridors of Elan-Sia’s nineteenth tier, her hand trailing along the smooth Founder-made walls. Luminescent tubes snaked overhead, the planet’s liquid life streaming and swirling in opalescent color. So high in the tiers, the light shone brightly, yet eerie shadows skulked in the corners without the moons’ ambient glow.

  She paused at a north-facing window. Clouds obliterated the stars, all light radiating from the surrounding delta. The Cull Sea’s pearly surface undulated with the song of the waves. Elegant silhouettes of Cull Tarr dragnets and skudders rocked on the swells, and the spindly masts of round-bellied galleasses speared the dark horizon. For a week, they’d amassed beyond the breakwater, sailing into the delta and up the Slipsilver, claiming a need to conclude business and gather supplies before the arrival of Winterchill gales.

  If she concentrated, she could distinguish the distant outlines of giant waterdragons as they breached the waves and smashed back through the surface in wild fountains of glittering spray.

  She abandoned the view and walked, arm outstretched, slender fingertips leaving invisible ribbons where they glided across the smooth surface. Somewhere, waterdragons pulled her daughter south with her new mother and the man who would have been her lover in another place and time, one unhindered by the persistent demands of power. She touched the exquisite rose gracing her eye. How could she be so powerful and powerless at the same time?

  She had nothing left to lose but her life. A sullen thought, though freeing if she believed it inevitable. Had her time arrived? She paused at the sounds of conversation, fingers pressed to the wall.

  Vianne’s familiar voice whispered around the quiet corner, “This discussion is uncalled for, her decision rendered.”

  “We have an oath to Ellegeance to consider,” Dalcoran replied.

  “Our oath is to Lelaine. I won’t agree.”

  One of them knocked and a door slid open with a soft hiss. New voices exchanged greetings, the Cull Tarr accent unmistakable.

  Catling sighed at the guild’s intrigue, endless manipulation, and a belief that what they accomplished mattered. The future would forget them. They’d die, and others would layer decisions over theirs, forging new paths. If influence were to vanish from the skin of the planet, would the world dawn each morning a kinder and safer place?

  She waited for an answer that didn’t come and then continued on past the ambassador’s door.

  The unseamed gray of the floor, the cool walls, and flat ceiling held no memories of those who’d trod the halls before. They demanded no care, no cleaning, no mending, or maintenance. How long would the alien cities last unchanged, impervious to the passage of time? Another three hundred years? A millennium? Lives came and went, washing from the tiers’ petals like rainwater to the porous, wet world below. Was her life within these walls any more important, other than being hers?

  Perhaps, only a world of wrinkles and grooves could capture the fragmented stories of wounded souls, hold them tight in the ashes and rubble. One required pitted stone and cracked wood, ragged bark and churned soil to heal a heart’s broken flesh. Whitt and Rose lived in that foreign world.

  Her skin matched these walls, smooth and serene. Yet, the emptiness of her expression, the monotony of her smile hid a secret fire within her that would one day flare and burst forth in a conflagration of pent up desperation.

  She walked past a tall mirror, refusing to acknowledge more than a glance at her face, the inked rose that hid the birthmark surrounding her right eye. It matched the garden that started beneath her hair, curled in vines down her neck and bloomed across her back, inhabited by the crimson bird of death. Influence had made her beautiful, exotic, one who drew stares and questions. It had also transformed her into a monster, a murderer, a woman desirous of vengeance.

  Nothing remained for her in the Founders’ sterile world but duty and death.

  ***

  Vianne accepted a cup of greenleaf from Falco Linc. The handsome Cull Tarr ambassador smiled graciously, eyes bright in his swarthy face. She’d never caught him with a visible whisker, and his long oiled hair seemed impervious to the wind. His scarlet Cull Tarr shirt stood out beneath the knee-length jacket with its exaggerated shoulders. Gold charms dangled from his wrists and ankles.

  The other Cull Tarr guest lacked the polish of the ambassador, but not his faith in the Founders. Shipmaster Emer Tilkon was the antithesis of demure in her revealing bodice, leggings bordering on transparent, and s
kirt slit to her belt, all in black. A scar curled her upper lip into one of two unnerving expressions: a smirk or a sneer. Though she hadn’t permanently assumed the position vacated by Varon Kest at his death, her presence as the Shiplord’s emissary in Elan-Sia meant Falco Linc would transfer back to Ava-Grea, to the Influencers’ Guild.

  Vianne settled into her seat. “It appears, Ambassador, that the Shiplord, once again, graces Ava-Grea with your company.”

  “My honor, Vianne-Ava. Tull Airon has not surrendered his wish for a united kingdom.”

  She tilted her head. “Queendom.”

  “Ah, of course.” Linc smiled. “Forgive me. The Cull Tarr harbor no ill feelings regarding a ruling queen.”

  The shipmaster smirked and cracked her knuckles, a habit drawing Vianne’s wince. “A queen and king make for a stronger rule, Doyen.”

  “Then, by all means,” Vianne said, “Tull Airon should bond with a woman of your faith and fortitude and strengthen his reign as Shiplord.” Her gaze shifted to Dalcoran. “Our queen has announced her choice, an adequate selection, and a fact you all seem determined to overlook.”

  “An unwise selection,” Dalcoran said. “Gannon offers no alliances. Other than Bes-Strea, the tiers will likely see Lelaine’s choice in a king as an affront. Ellegeance continues to change, Vianne, more rapidly than I’d favor, and Emer is correct; a bond with a man of inherent power would offer greater stability.”

  “Change is inevitable and rarely comfortable.” Vianne sipped her tea, wishing she’d brought her lace. Tatting occupied her hands and calmed her nerves, essential when dealing with those of stilted imaginations and shuttered minds.

  Seated across from her, Dalcoran massaged his fingers, the joints swollen and painful to behold. “Lelaine’s mistakes could have been avoided with less secrecy and greater collaboration at the onset. Had we maintained control, we might have circumvented a host of challenges.”

  If he meant to be cryptic, his failure bordered on abysmal. Thirteen years had lapsed since Vianne slipped Catling into Ava-Grea without his knowledge and arranged a primary vow to the queen. He still struggled to forgive her, the complaint persisting like a pebble in his boot. As a result of those unsanctioned actions, Lelaine rendered decisions unbiased by influence, and in Vianne’s opinion, the benefits outweighed the disadvantages. “I’m still convinced the outcome justified the means.”

  “A philosophy the Shiplord would approve of.” Linc idled by the window with a goblet of boiled water, pure according to Cull Tarr standards, its luminescence dead.

  Dalcoran rubbed a dab of elbrin liniment into his gnarled hands. The stately man was precise about his appearance. His erect back matched his morals, his sharp features and groomed hair as perfectly defined as his oath. He’d become rigid through the years, both physically and perceptually. As far as she was concerned, he’d lost his bearings in both senses of the word.

  She sipped her greenleaf, berating herself for her sullenness. They’d worked as colleagues for more than half their lives, and despite how he nettled her calm, their years together meant something. She hadn’t stopped caring. “May I help?”

  He met her eyes with a weariness that had lingered for days and ignored the offer of her skills. “Vianne, I believe we should strongly urge Lelaine to reconsider her selection, and for the sake of Ellegeance, accept the Shiplord’s proposal.”

  She set her cup on the low table between them, the conversation already conversed to death. “What do you mean by ‘strongly urge?’ ”

  “Influence,” Tilkon replied.

  “Influence is temporary,” she informed the woman, a fact the Cull Tarr knew well. “The moment she’s alone she would know we deceived her.”

  Tilkon shrugged. “Once her vows are tendered, it won’t matter.”

  Vianne glared at them all, their audacity startling. “Have you gone mad? Such deceit would destroy our standing with the queen, which in turn would create chaos in the realm. This isn’t our decision. She’s reached a choice, and it’s our duty—our oath—to support her.”

  Dalcoran’s jaw hardened, a sign of exasperation or ire she’d endured more than she cared to admit. “I am not suggesting, Vianne, that we influence her into a bond, but that we challenge her choice. The high wards will not accept a man from the warrens, especially one who’s forced them to surrender their power.”

  “First of all,” she argued, “he didn’t force anyone into a peace we didn’t sanction. Secondly, do you really believe the high wards will feel any more comforted with the Shiplord as king?” She glanced at Linc and Tilkon. “My regrets for the harshness of my words, but the mere suggestion is ludicrous.”

  Tilkon cracked her knuckles. “The Founders desire their union.”

  “According to the Shiplord.” Vianne was sorely tempted to roll her eyes.

  “He speaks with the voice of the gods,” Tilkon said. “It’s the Founders’ will.”

  “Vianne.” Linc dipped his head. “I understand that our faith is not shared, though I trust you will come to believe with time. Tull Airon wishes for peace and prosperity, for expansion of Ellegean power and authority, for a place at the queen’s side.”

  “Forgive me,” Vianne said, her irritation littering her tone. “But those aspirations do not require a bond between our rulers. They entail careful negotiation and genuine commitment. The only thing a bond guarantees is Cull Tarr rule.”

  Dalcoran shook his head. “Lelaine is a weak queen, Vianne. Her years on the throne are marked by the disrespect of her subjects, rebellion in the tier cities, a second war in the south. How many more Ellegeans must face death under her reign?”

  “With our guild’s commitment? None.” She scowled at him. “We have never fully supported her. She’s had to wrench us up every step of her stairway and drag us by our ears across the land. We’re partly to blame.”

  “The Shiplord would bring peace.” Dalcoran’s gaze dropped to his hands, a gesture she attributed to shame. “We can instruct the influencers in the tiers to control any protest on the part of the high wards and guilds.”

  “We can and should do the same for Gannon,” she insisted, her patience fraying, “our queen’s choice of king.”

  “Gannon,” Tilkon muttered, her lip taking a roguish turn.

  “Vianne-Ava,” Ambassador Linc stepped in, “the Shiplord blesses you with the Founders’ wisdom. He has agreed to your terms and will permit the doyen and your guild to rule the tiers with or without the high wards’ consent.”

  “Our terms? Our rule?” She reached for her tea, and when her hand shook, she left the cup on the table. “Dalcoran, do you hear this? Do you agree? We’ve always provided balance to tier power, balance to royal rule. Are you suggesting we overthrow the high wards? That’s a terrible idea.”

  “Not overthrow but influence. It’s workable.” Dalcoran raised his eyes to her. “It’s too late for other options, Vianne. You must convince Lelaine this is her only choice.”

  “No!” Vianne couldn’t believe this conversation. “This is lunatic. Brenna and Neven certainly won’t agree.”

  “Vianne-Ava, they already have,” Linc said, his back to the window.

  Awareness flooded her. This wasn’t a speculative or spontaneous discussion. She faced a conspiracy, one broader and deeper than she imagined. One in which she was an obstacle. “Lelaine won’t agree to a bond with your Shiplord, and she can’t be coerced.”

  “Influence her,” Tilkon said. “It’s in Ellegeance’s best interest. Sway her into cooperation.”

  Dalcoran shook his head. “We can’t. She’s protected by Catling.” He met Vianne’s horrified eyes and sighed. “We must find another way.”

  “Protected from influence?” Tilkon leaned forward.

  A placid mask slipped over Vianne’s face while her heart pounded in her ears. She ignored the question and clenched her hands in her lap, knuckles as pale as her pearled jacket. Her gaze swung from Dalcoran to the ambassador. “Are you insinuating that if
Lelaine refuses to bond with the Shiplord, the Cull Tarr will seize Ellegeance by force?”

  None of them answered. A pang of fear prickled her skin, the danger embedded in the conversation palpable. She patted the braids in her cinnamon hair to hide the quaking of her hands. “Give me a night to consider how we might manage this without another war or completely damaging Lelaine’s trust in us. I agree that hostility serves no one, including the queen. We’ll reconvene in the morning at the seventh bell if it suits you.”

  “Seventh bell.” Linc bowed. “My regrets, Vianne-Ava, for the difficult choice.”

  “Accepted.” She smiled at the gesture, concealing the river of rage ripping through her limbs. Without a glance back, she walked to the door and tapped the panel. The portal slid aside, and she departed.

  Her gait felt disjointed as if her legs were carved of wood and she’d just learned to walk. She touched the wall to steady her trembling, a rising panic leaving her lightheaded. Outside her guest chamber, she rested her forehead on the door, weighing her choices. A muffled voice reached her ears from within the room. She stepped back, turned, and hurried on.

  At the corridor’s end, she slapped the panel, and as soon as the door opened enough to squeeze through, she slipped into the potted garden. A brisk wind raced across the ebony sky, stars smothered in a cloak of clouds. Arms wrapped around herself against the chill, she hurried to the nearest pylon. The lift’s portal opened and she darted in, holding her breath while the smooth wall closed.

  Elan-Sia numbered more tiers than her home city, and what level housed the birds, she could only guess. She exited on the seventh tier, ruing the late hour and wishing she had disturbed Lelaine first.

  “Messenger doves?” she asked a strolling couple wrapped to their noses in scarves.

  “Merchants’ Guild, eighth tier, south end,” the man replied, and the pair drifted on.

  Vianne darted to the spiraling stair and climbed two steps at a time, her anxiety rattling her bones more than the cold. On the eighth level, she ran down the main thoroughfare dissecting the tier in half. Luminescent tubes snaked along the underside of the upper level, and windows glowed on the second floors above closed shops. She exited on the south promenade and listened for the coo of coted doves. Nothing. She hurried west, gave up, and reversed, heading east.