Catling's Bane (The Rose Shield Book 1) Read online

  The sandy-haired boy at his elbow could be none other than Algar’s nephew, a fresh applicant seeking guild talents. He stood tall for his young years, and if he feared his new vocation, he hid it well.

  “The man?” she asked Qeyon as he stepped to the dock.

  “In the hold,” he replied.

  “And you must be Kadan-Mur,” she said with a slight dip of her head. “I’m Vianne-Ava, one of four doyen of the Influencers’ Guild. Welcome to Ava-Grea.”

  “My respects,” Kadan said, bending at the waist. “I’m pleased to be here.”

  “I hope so, Kadan. Our guild is not for the weak of heart. Then again, neither is Mur-Vallis from all I hear.”

  She beckoned to the two aspirants, one boy a gangly stick figure and the other apparently using the lift more than he hiked the stairs. “Kadan, this is Poet and Vincen. They will walk you up the tiers, help you settle, and introduce you to Dalcoran-Elan, the doyen who will oversee your training.” With a wave, she shooed them off. “You are all dismissed.”

  The boys receded, blending into the dock’s streaming commotion. Kadan marched stiffly as if headed to war while Poet and Vincen elbowed each other and tripped over their own feet. She turned back to Qeyon. “Tell me.”

  “The high ward’s guards slew Gannon’s companions and almost murdered him. I tended the most serious of his broken bones and staunched the worst of his bleeding.”

  “He’s in pain?”

  “Considerable.” Qeyon looked over his shoulder. Two of the ferry’s crew jostled a litter from the cramped hold.

  “You wished to relieve his pain,” she said, aware how her order had grated against the influencer’s nature.

  “I did, Vianne.” He stepped aside as the men climbed from the deck to the dock. “It seemed cruel not to ease his pain when I had the means.”

  “You do understand why I ordered you not to aid him beyond what was necessary?” One of the litter bearers cleared his throat, and Vianne pointed to several servants who would deliver the prisoner to his jailors.

  Qeyon nodded. “You will ease his pain when he answers your questions.”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “The pain he feels was inflicted by Algar. If you had healed him, and he proves unwilling to bend to gentler persuasion, then you would have forced me to torture him anew. I would rather not take that step.”

  With little more to say, she regarded her filthy captive. His ebony curls were lank and his clothes soiled. The harm done his face had yellowed, and smears of plum bruising hung beneath his eyes. He lay on the litter, ignoring her scrutiny and staring up at the tiers. She followed his gaze, imaging his first view of the city. Eight pylons rose twelves tiers into the azure sky. If she recalled correctly, Ava-Grea was almost twice the height and more than three times the breadth of Mur-Vallis. Impressive.

  A humid breeze bathed her in the pungent scent of the summer swamp. It merged with the man’s stink and the reek of rotting fish. He turned his head, his eyes drifting beyond her to take in the swamp’s soggy hummocks and groves of jade caliph trees stretching from the water like giant leather-necked lizards. Tiny orange birds perched on the branches mimicking flower petals, and a greenspeckled crane fished in the watery muck.

  “Follow me,” she said to her litter-bearers, ready to be on her way. Time was not on her side.

  ***

  The cells were located in the second tier’s shadowed core near clusters of guard barracks. Cramped, but not cruelly so, they offered the city’s few prisoners a cot, washbasin, and waste drain. No windows broke the Founder-made walls and tubes of luminescence were encased in wire to prevent the glass from shattering.

  Per her instructions, the guards lashed the man’s wrists to the cot, a sturdy construction bolted to the floor. The jailor delivered a chair and left them alone. She pulled her seat to the bed’s edge.

  “My name is Vianne. I imagine you have as many questions as I.”

  He turned his face to the wall. Flaked remnants of dried blood clung to his skin at the nape of his neck. Grime coated every scrap of his clothing, and his stench was spectacular in the closed space.

  “Before we begin, Gannon, I’m going to ease your pain. Not all, simply a gesture of goodwill.” She lay her hand on his arm and directed the healing flow of energy through her fingertips toward his bruised and broken ribs. The hidden woads needled into her skin prickled as she accelerated the repair. When his breathing relaxed, she withdrew her hand, the work yet undone.

  “Thank you,” he said, his voice a murmur.

  She sat back in the chair, satisfied with the fractional sign of progress. With a master’s subtlety, she nudged him with a hint of love, intending to counter his fear and plant a seed of trust. “My oath, Gannon, is first to Ellegeance and second to my guild. All else ranks third to varying degrees with no vow to bind me. I have meager concern for Algar, for you, or even for the king except in service to the realm. As doyen, I am a skilled emotive, sensorist, and mercy, and prefer to use my talents only when reason fails. Never is it my wish to coerce, but I won’t hesitate if forced to do so. Do you understand?”

  “Why am I here?”

  “I believe you already know the answer to your question.”

  “Because I challenged Algar.”

  “I too can play games.” She wiped a bead of sweat from her hairline and rocked the pendulum of influence to give him a taste of fear. His hands clenched into fists, and he held his breath.

  “Qeyon reported that you were immune to his influence and did a poor job hiding it. He encountered you again, fleeing the market after the riot, and stated that he found you equally unswayed. How did you resist him?”

  Gannon closed his eyes, wrists pulling against the leather restraints. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You do, Gannon.” The presence of fear increased. She tinged it with love and a spark of physical pleasure, a desire for security, an urge to please and impress.

  “I don’t know,” he insisted. A tear squeezed from his closed eyes.

  “I’m afraid I don’t believe you.” She rose and paced, wishing for a window.

  “I didn’t do anything. I defied Algar, nothing more.”

  Vianne sighed without bothering to face him. “I leave you with a thought to contemplate, and it is this: You are a dangerous man, Gannon. What you did has the potential to disrupt the power structures within Ellegeance and, therefore, your life lies in jeopardy. I shall learn the truth even if I need to crush you. Your cooperation will save you great suffering, and perhaps it will save your life.”

  For a count of five, she pushed on his fear, swelling it into a deluge that surged through his heart and head. She let it ebb as she tapped on the door, stepped out, and slid it closed behind her.

  In the hallway, Qeyon rose from a bench. “Any progress?”

  “He denies it. Not surprising if he’s considered the implications.” She walked past him, desperate for fresh air. The lack of breeze on the lower tiers, combined with the humidity, felt stifling. Perspiration bloomed on her skin. For a heartbeat, she considered removing her jacket as most tier residents did during Summertide, but she’d never been one to condone slovenly attire, and she wasn’t about to start.

  From an outdoor eatery at the tier’s edge, she purchased juice and a lissom, the pink citrus of the north, slightly tart and more than refreshing. She gazed out over the expanse of forested swamp. Qeyon sat beside her on the walled edge of a fountain.

  “Are you certain it was him?” she asked. “From all appearances, he didn’t block me once during our chat.”

  “I’m most certain,” the influencer replied. “He caught me staring at him, and he knew I’d noticed. I saw it in his eyes.”

  “And his companions?”

  “The man and child with him responded as expected, the same as the others. Gannon stood out like a raven in a flock of gulls.”

  “And in the warrens?” she asked. “You’re sure?”

  Qeyon nodde
d. “He held a knife and would have slain me if I’d tried to raise an alarm. When I drowned them in love and pleasure, the girl felt it, but to him, it made no difference. He was completely free of my sway and openly threatened me.”

  Vianne threaded her fingers together and tapped a knuckle to her lips, knowing her next step and disliking it. “I’ll have our answers before nightfall. I can’t delay, and if any word leaks of our captive’s ability, we shall lose our chance. He’ll be a dead man.”

  ***

  Gannon had botched his plans and expected to die for it. His dream of respect, dignity, and justice, of freeing the warrens from Algar’s tyranny had plunged from the tier with Keela. Another man or woman might take the lead, opting for assassinations and full-scale rebellion, but he doubted it. The underlords profited from the arrangement as much as the tiers.

  His last hope for the warrens had rested with a little girl who’d fled the carnage. Maybe she’d return one day, older and shrewder, propelled by outrage or revenge. He clung to that slender chance by his fingernails, frightened of what lay ahead.

  When Vianne returned to his cell, her face wore a frown of reluctance, green eyes heavy with regret. The weariness in her countenance added years. The ivory clothes, flawless skin, and silver in her cinnamon hair deceived the eye. Upon first glance, she appeared innocent, gentle and graceful, her voice touched with kindness. Yet, the set of her jaw told him he’d find no quarter with her. She planned to torture him.

  The latch clicked as the guards locked her in, and she assumed her seat by his cot. “I’ve returned for the truth, Gannon, and I have little time. Tell me how you blocked Qeyon’s influence. He has assured me, beyond question, of your guil… power.”

  “You were about to say ‘guilt.’” He caught her eyes as her back stiffened. “Do you execute the guilty?”

  The woman sighed. “Only if your pigheadedness forces my hand.”

  “Torture away,” he said, turning his face to the wall and shutting his mouth. Fear wormed into his consciousness, the muscles and sinews of his body contracting.

  Rising from her chair, she strode to the door and knocked. Two guards entered, carrying a strip of cloth with a bulky knot in the middle. Gannon clenched his teeth as the guards descended on him. One held his head while the other tried to force the gag between his teeth. A sharp blast of pain ripped through his chest, and he gasped. The guard crammed the balled knot into his mouth. He cried out as they twisted his head and secured the cloth. Glaring at the woman, he shouted, his oaths muffled by the gag.

  The guards rose and stood by the door. “Anything else, Vianne-Ava?”

  “Ignore us,” she replied. They nodded and left.

  Vianne strode to the foot of his cot, her voice soft, “Block me.”

  He shook his head, steeling himself. Pain flared as an invisible vise closed on his chest. His hands wrenched against his restraints as he squeezed his eyes shut and bit on the gag. The agony expanded, thrusting spears of steel into his arms and legs. As quickly, she released him, and his breath shuddered from his lungs.

  “It’s going to get worse, Gannon,” she said. “Block me.”

  The pressure returned, the sensation mounting. He screamed into the gag, writhed against the pain of his cracking ribs, his heart exploding in his chest. Torment scoured his veins and shot into his joints. “Aaah! Naargh! Aaaargh!” He heard his own muffled bawling.

  “Block me!” Vianne demanded.

  “Aaaargh cahn’t! Aaaah!” he howled. His head pounded, nerves sparking, skin on fire. Needled daggers ground into this bones. “Naaargh! Cahn’t!”

  “Block me!” she shouted.

  She flayed the skin from his body. His joints twisted, bones crushed. Fear exploded in his head, smashing into the fragile barriers of sanity, incinerating the shredded remains of any resistance. The woman’s commands barked, unintelligible. And all he could do was scream.

  Then the pain vanished.

  He panted, shaking, the muscles in his body rigid. The memory of pain bathed him in sweat, quaking through him like a virulent fever. He gulped air, body heaving and trembling.

  “Why didn’t you block me?” she asked, her voice bewildered.

  He shook his head, eyes closed. The terrible fear subsided. “Sick,” he mumbled through the gag. Her jacket rustled as she neared, and her fingers worried the knot behind his head. When it fell away, he vomited on his shoulder and hair. He dropped his head back and groaned, uncaring.

  “No one could endure…” She stared at him. “You couldn’t block me. It’s not you.”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “But you know who it is.” She grimaced at the miasma of smells permeating the small room. “Don’t make me do that again, Gannon. Don’t force me. You must realize I haven’t a choice.”

  “Who’s your master?” he asked, turning to read her face.

  “The realm.” She paced between the dim walls. “You must have an inkling of how this power might be wielded in the wrong hands. Or why else would you resist me.” She pivoted on her heel to face him. “Yet, in the right hands, it can cut through subversive agendas. It might prevent influence from being used to usurp authority, incite war, and harm the future of Ellegeance.”

  “I thought the influencers’ oath was to the realm.”

  “It is.” She paused to study him. “Yet, we are human beings and subject to temptation after all.”

  “You could let me go,” he whispered. “It’s over anyway.”

  “Tell me who it is, and I swear to you I’ll spare your life. I give you my oath.”

  “No, you won’t. I know too much.”

  “I want the name.” She resumed her pacing and then halted. “It’s the girl, isn’t it? Qeyon said she was with you in the alley.”

  When he didn’t answer, ripples of pain danced behind his eyes. His stomach knotted and fear engulfed him, whether his own or influenced, he couldn’t say, and it scarcely mattered. She knew. “Yes.”

  She sat beside him, green eyes eager. Her hand touched his wrist, and his body began to warm and relax. The lingering pain of his previous injuries eased, replaced with sensations of physical pleasure and relief. An awareness of gratitude for his torturer tickled his thoughts. It was subtle and would have been imperceptible if it hadn’t felt so illogical.

  Vianne leaned toward him. “That little girl is in grave danger, Gannon. You understand, don’t you? Algar’s no fool, and from what Qeyon said, she made a spectacle of herself in the market. I can protect her, here in Ava-Grea. You must tell me who she is and where to find her before she and everyone she knows is dead.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Behind the stead, knee deep in garden greens, Catling worked beside Zadie. Gussy slept in a sling on her mother’s back, cheek mashed against a shoulder. While Zadie weeded, Catling plucked out the less hardy seedlings so the rest of the vegetables gained precious room to grown. She hadn’t been home half a season, yet she’d slipped into the farm’s daily routine like butter on a warm day.

  Whitt and Piper mended pens, intending to tie up the task before Piper traveled south to join the Warriors’ Guild in Guardian. His anger over Brid’s hanging hadn’t softened with time, and Scuff thought he’d be wise to pump his thunderous fury into something useful besides drinking too much tipple and busting things up, including his knuckles.

  The nicker of a horse jarred Catling from her work a moment before the sound of stamping hooves reached her ears. Her head jerked up, and she scrambled to her feet, heart pounding, ready to flee at Wenna’s signal. Every visitor brought a frenzy of worry with Gannon and Farrow topping the list. Wenna didn’t want anyone strumming Catling’s heartstrings and convincing her that another venture in Mur-Vallis was an intelligent idea.

  Zadie gestured to the woods. “You run off anyway and don’t come back until one of us calls.” She dusted off her hands, wiped her hair from her face, and started toward the front yard.

  Catling darted into the trees and hid
inside the ancient oak, hands clutched in her lap. She listened, eyes pinched closed and breath locked up tight. With little surprise, she heard Zadie call her name, an end to more needless panic. She squeezed from the tree’s bole and skirted the garden on her way to the stead, wondering who might have arrived, on horses no less.

  When she turned the corner, fear struck her in the chest. Her shield snapped into place.

  Three tier guards dressed in black jackets and tall boots idled beside their mounts. A female guard stood beside a wide-bellied influencer. Colorful woads peeked from his sleeves, and gray hair ringed his head like a wreath. The guard pointed, and the pudgy man smiled, the sight of his quarry sharpening his eyes.

  Mingling in the yard, her family chatted and grinned as if it were a feasting day. Wenna beckoned with a wave. “Catling! They’re here to take you back to Mur-Vallis. I know this might seem peculiar after all our discussions, but now I can’t see why not.”

  “You’ll live in the tiers,” Whitt said, eyes brimming with delight. “Like a true wardess.”

  The influencer handed Scuff a purse clinking with coins. “A gesture of goodwill.” He motioned to the guard at his side, and the woman started across the yard.

  “No!” Catling shifted her shield and cut the threads of influence embracing her family.

  Wenna’s hands flew to her hips as she blinked and surveyed the assembly. “Wait. What’s the meaning of this? What do you think you’re doing?” The guards by the horses glanced up, and the woman approaching Catling spun, chin drawn back in surprise.

  “We’re here for Catling.” The influencer’s brow pinched. “As we discussed, she has a place in Mur-Vallis awaiting her.”

  A familiar sense that all was well drifted over Catling like a fragrant breeze, and she smiled at the excitement.

  “She’s not going anywhere,” Wenna stated. “You can mount your horses and ride out the way you rode in.”