Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3)
Farlanders’ Law
The Rose Shield: Book Three
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: 978-1635355178
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. A loving thank you to my husband, Randy, who year after year supports my all-consuming passion for words. I owe you all my heartfelt gratitude.
Table of Contents
Farlanders' Law
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
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Kari’s Reckoning
About the Author
Books by D. Wallace Peach
Map
Chapter One
Brightest Night.
Three full moons sailed an obsidian sky. The Cull Sea roared with high tides, smashed against the breakwater, and cast glittering spray to the Winterchill wind. The song and surge of the waves shaped Elan-Sia. They salted the delta’s freshwater sloughs and sawgrass marshes, saturated the peat, and swamped the tree islands. Elan-Sia lived by the tides, the revolution of the planet’s life demanding accommodation.
Suffering marked the human ordeals of life as it did death. The pain that keened from Catling’s lips and trembled in her exhausted limbs fled when a daughter slid free in a final gush of blood. It broke over her body and ebbed as if never suffered. Three midwives nestled the tiny baby on her chest while they fussed with other tasks.
She stared at the odd, misshapen head, the old man face, the twig arms and froggy legs, skin thin as flower petals, fingernails like tiny shells. The baby’s hair was a slick black sheen, her eyes gray, features she’d inherited from the man who sired her.
Throughout her pregnancy, Catling had silently stewed over how she would feel about the child, whether the infant’s presence would serve as a constant reminder of her repeated rape, of her helplessness in Algar’s hands, his groping, his smell, his taste. She sensed none of that trepidation, those days of worry for naught.
Instead, the baby reminded her of Gussy on the day Zadie delivered her into the world of the stead. Such memories raised tears for a lost lifetime, a wistful dream that evaporated upon her waking to a harsher, crueler morn. Those days had marked the most sacred of her life, a few years of recaptured innocence when they called her Rose for lack of another name. Zadie had chosen the name because of her eye, and Wenna had given her the choice of calling it her own. The tender mothers of her youth had seen the ugly mark bruising her face and named it something lovely, called her a thing of beauty when she was a scrawny cast off lacking a voice of her own.
This little one possessed no flaws, no strange blemish or discoloration or unexplained power, nothing to hurl her life into heartbreak and ruin. So, Catling chose the name again, and in that instant, all her misgivings, all her dreaded anger and doubts and regrets about the baby resting on her body vanished. Every indignity Algar had inflicted upon her, every threat and injury and act of destruction faded into the murky distance. For years, those with unfettered authority had wielded her as a tool. Now, the power of the infant’s face, the gray eyes and soft hair, the little bowed lips, the helplessness of this new life eclipsed them all. Suddenly, only this life mattered, her child’s life, and she drifted instantly and deeply into love.
“Welcome, Rose,” she breathed.
“A pretty name,” one of the midwives said. “Let’s get you both into clean blankets and warmed up before the queen visits.” Pulled from her reverie into the gray Founder-made world, Catling sighed and let the women finish their duties. One of them left the room to advise the queen of Rose’s birth.
Only once had Lelaine offered to inquire about the herbs to terminate the budding life, and for a week, Catling had considered it. Her emotions lay in shambles, the arc of her life tangled beyond her control. Algar’s abuse had twisted a knot in her belly that left her physically sick as if he’d poisoned the very core of her.
Yet, even then, Lelaine’s motive hadn’t been concern for Catling’s welfare. She thought of the realm, duty, a monarch’s responsibilities. It was a role she bound around her skin like a fur cloak, trimmed with enthusiasm and scarcely a shred of empathy. The suggestion had left Catling wary, and Gannon had counseled caution despite his relationship with the queen, advice Catling appreciated.
The midwife swaddled the infant and cozied her in Catling’s arms. “I’ll send a wet nurse shortly.”
“I plan to nurse her myself,” Catling replied. A vision of Zadie’s sweet intimacy with Daisy and then Gussy danced in her eyes.
“Oh no, dear,” the woman tutted, her tight smile compounding the regret in her eyes. “I understand your wish, but Lelaine-Elan said absolutely not. She needs you available at a moment’s notice and without constraints on your time.”
“Lelaine has no right to decide this matter,” Catling insisted, the command pricking her. “She doesn’t rule over my child.”
The midwife sat on the edge of her bed and patted Catling’s arm, her voice a whisper, “Choose your won’ts and can’ts with care, my dear, and consider the implications before you plant your feet and resist her. If you fulfill your obligations without question, the queen will have no reason to interfere with your daughter’s life.”
Catling stared at her. Were the
last words intentionally ominous? A warning or a threat? “What are you suggesting?”
The door to the room opened, and Lelaine tiptoed in, her blond ringlets framing her smile. The midwife stood and bowed, retreating from the bedside. Lelaine assumed her place, curious blue eyes seeking the infant cuddled in Catling’s arms. “How lovely, Catling. May I see her?”
“Would you like to hold her?”
“May I?”
Catling offered the bundle. “Her name is Rose.”
Lelaine cradled the baby and cooed. “She’ll receive wonderful care, Catling. The best in Elan-Sia.”
“I plan to care for her myself.”
“Of course.” Lelaine smiled and stroked the baby’s cheek, all her attention focused on the small face. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with your obligations, you may do whatever pleases you. She’s your daughter.”
Catling watched the queen enjoy the newborn, the woman oblivious to the barb she’d so innocently thrown.
“Shall I send in the wet nurse?” the midwife asked from the door.
“Yes, certainly,” Lelaine replied, handing the baby back and rising from the bed. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ve canceled all visitors for a few days so you might enjoy your baby.”
The woman at the door paused. Catling choked on her words and nodded.
***
All three moons glimmered on the Fangwold’s porcelain world, the mountains’ teeth biting against the sable sky. A rare night, the serrated peaks rose stark and untainted by the season’s snow-laden clouds. Wind swept down the sheer slopes in a bitter gale, and the snow beneath Whitt’s feet squeaked. He clutched his cloak closed, frosty fingers tucked into the folds as he crossed from the barracks to Guardian’s citadel and the commander’s quarters.
The deep cold would guarantee short patrols. Whitt nodded to the miserable wretches on duty as they crunched through the moonlit crust, hunched down in their cowls and swaddled in layers of fur like crag bears. An invasion over the pass was possible but highly unlikely. Come Winterchill, frostbite became a fiercer enemy than the Farlanders.
He greeted two guardians at the citadel door and entered the stone foyer, relishing his release from the relentless wind. Lanterns hung on chains from the wood ceiling, casting a fiery glow on the granite expanse. Benches lined the walls below the arrow slits overlooking Guardian’s icy grounds and snow-capped outbuildings. The fortress was the only city in Ellegeance constructed by man.
The tap of his heels echoed down the corridors, the rhythm altered by a slight limp, the result of fighting with a broken ankle in Nor Bis. The usual bustle in the citadel surrendered to the soft hush of random conversation since the Brightest Night celebration commenced in the cavernous dining hall. His next stop once the commander freed him.
He knuckled Jagur’s door and waited.
“Come in, Whitt.”
Whitt scraped the door shut behind him to prevent the trapped heat from escaping. Despite the lively fire burning in the stone hearth, ferns of frost iced the window. The commander sat behind his desk, reading a missive with a pair of round spectacles perched on the tip of his nose, a recent addition the big man hadn’t stopped grumbling about. More gray streaked his trimmed beard, and Whitt couldn’t help but conclude that the war between the tiers had aged him. “You wanted to see me?”
“Have a seat.” The commander tossed the letter onto his desk and picked up his pipe. “I’ve found myself a new page with duties commencing in the morning. Figured you’d be happy about that since you’re the oldest page in the realm.”
Whitt stifled an urge to say it was about time, even though he’d advanced beyond the duties of a page several years ago. “I’ll miss working by your side, Commander.”
“I’d have kept you on until you were an old wart, but Tavor’s grousing that you’re due for a promotion, and he nags like a mule with a burr in his tail. So this is it, Lieutenant.” He presented Whitt with the lapis crescent signifying his rank.
“Lieutenant?”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Then that’s what I meant.”
Whitt accepted the badge. “Thank you. I’ll make you proud.”
“Make yourself proud, Whitt. You’re the one who has to live with you.” Jagur leaned forward and packed his pipe with oily leaves. “I’m sending you south to Tor as soon as the pass is open.”
“To the Far Wolds?” Whitt blinked at him, the delight at his promotion taking a sudden turn. He hadn’t expected a post outside Guardian, the place he’d come to know as home. He’d never stepped foot in the southern territories.
“Do you realize that you question everything I say?” Jagur arched an eyebrow. “Going forward, I’ll pretend you understood and move on. Suit you?”
Whitt cracked a smile. “Sorry, Sir.”
“Now, toss a log on that fire. I’d order my page do it, but he’s not here.”
His badge in his pocket, Whitt fed the fire. The commander lit his pipe and puffed until the fragrant smoke wreathed his head like a storm cloud.
“Yes, the Far Wolds.” Jagur tapped the papers littering his desk. “Guardian has forty warriors between the three settlements. They’re supposed to keep a damper on hard feelings, and all they seem capable of doing is sending letters griping about the weather. Despite the regal wishes of our fledgling queen, the trouble isn’t simply evaporating.”
The commander raised an eyebrow. “The high wards control the inner cities, which wouldn’t be a problem if they kept their ambitions and guards inside their gates. To their thinking, our treaties amount to a list of friendly suggestions. The high wards want control of the outer cities too, and it isn’t going over well among the natives.”
“None of that’s new information, Sir.” Whitt had aired his opinions regarding clashes between Ellegeans and Farlanders for a decade, and if tensions were heating up, it didn’t surprise him in the least. “For all our talk about law and justice, we do a poor job of it. What choice do the clans have but to resist us? What would we do were the situation reversed? They want to stay in their homes, and we want them out.”
“I’m aware of that, and it sums up the problem. This pending catastrophe has brewed long enough, and hoping everyone will tire of fighting and get used to each other isn’t a plan. When the restraints on reason snap, who will the queen send in to sweep up the mess? Guardian, that’s who. Our oath is to Ellegeance, and in my mind, keeping the peace in our territories applies. Especially if it means Ellegeance doesn’t end up in another unnecessary war.
“I concur, Sir.”
“I’m glad to hear it because you don’t have a choice.” Jagur puffed on his pipe. “I’m sending Tavor along, and Cale, naturally, since the two are joined at the lips.”
“What’s my mission?”
“Find out what’s going on down there and bring back solutions that both parties will accept and the queen will enact. Those are your short-term orders. Once we get the queen off her royal duff, you’ll be stationed there with a modest command, implementing whatever it is we’ve agreed to.”
“For how long?”
“For as long as it takes.” The commander eyed him. “You have other plans?”
Whitt inhaled and let out a sigh. He had tried to bring Catling to Guardian, but the queen had refused to release her from her vow. Since he was a scrawny runt of a boy, his childhood chum had never strayed far from his thoughts. Part of him still clung to the promise of innocent love and the warmth of old friendship. Yet, Brightest Night had arrived, and she probably cared for a baby now. She was a prisoner of duty more than he, and they resided at the realm’s opposite ends. Perhaps the time had arrived to move on. “No, Sir. No plans.”
Jagur held the pipe aside while he studied Whitt. “You did your noblest with her and for her. Influencers are a complicated lot, and Catling is more complicated than most. A woman who can sway your reason and emotion on a whim is inherently dangerous. They s
wear they won’t, but what woman could resist giving her man a subtle nudge in the right direction? She has a life in Elan-Sia, a decent one. It’s time for you to think about the same.”
“I’ve wanted to do something for the Farlanders for years,” Whitt replied. “It would be an honor.”
“You’re not doing it for them; you’re doing it for Ellegeance. If it happens to benefit the clans at the same time, all the better.” Jagur sucked on his pipe and frowned, the fire out. “Go on. It’s Brightest Night, and come spring you’re headed somewhere even colder. Enjoy yourself.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you for everything, Commander.”
Jagur pointed the stem of his pipe toward the door, and Whitt took the cue. The commander was part cranky old man, part father, and part genius when it came to knowing what Whitt needed. Maybe he acted that way with all the men, but Whitt took it personally. Jagur had surely saved his life.
He reversed his direction down the stairs and through the citadel’s chilly corridors. A promotion, a trip south, an eventual command. Even if it were a small one, it would be an important one. The orders were positive; this is why he’d come to Guardian, to be part of something larger, something that could make a difference. He wouldn’t offer any solution that didn’t also benefit the clansmen. He owed as much to Sim, to her dead family and his dead friends.
He yanked his cowl over his head and held his cloak closed before stepping into the wind. The two half-frozen guards grinned and saluted. Whitt chuckled and returned the gesture, gripping the warriors’ inked dagger on his forearm. Apparently, he was the last to know about his elevation in rank.
He trod through the snow toward the dining hall, its slit windows awash with light, and paused for a view of the moons. The pink giant Sogul shone in the northern sky, blue Misanda to her left, racing for the horizon, yellow Clio high overhead. Guardian spanned the notch in the mountains. Below him, terraced fields and rough terrain descended along the South River, joining the Slipsilver and wending northward to Elan-Sia and the sea. Was Catling gazing up at the same moons? Thinking of him? Did it matter?