Oathbreakers' Guild (The Rose Shield Book 2) Page 14

  “—is to the realm,” Lelaine finished. “I have heard it countless times before. Who decides what serves the realm? The four of you? All of you? Eighty disparate opinions? The opinions of the high wards to whom your influencers are committed?”

  “Influencers defer to the guild,” Brenna explained.

  Lelaine inhaled, the recently elevated doyen trying her patience. “Only if you are apprised of a matter or brought into a question. The debate concerning the Far Wolds is a perfect example. Half of the influencers canvased believe the Farlanders are savages requiring taming, while the other half insist they are victims needing protection. The opinions about what’s in Ellegeance’s best interests couldn’t be more opposed.”

  “If I may?” Vianne asked before Brenna could open her mouth.

  When Brenna nodded, Vianne set her tatting on the table. “You are not wrong, Your Grace. This is an imperfect arrangement. I would reason that the realm is served by having influencers in the provinces should we need them. In order to maintain a presence, the high wards must trust us. We conduct the conclave to ensure our paths are aligned.”

  Lelaine refused to surrender her point. “Therefore the four of you decide for the realm in my stead. You neither inform me nor consult me. Who are you loyal to? What does the guild desire? What if we disagree and work at odds.” She waited while the doyen chewed her words. “I want an influencer with a primary vow to me who will apprise me of all council decisions. If your discussions aren’t treasonous, then what prevents it?”

  Dalcoran rose from his seat and refilled his greenleaf at the sideboard. “Balance, Your Grace. Our vow to the realm ensures balance.”

  Understanding finally dawned. She and Ellegeance were distinguishable. Their vow bound their loyalties to the realm, not to her. Convenient should they elect to dethrone her. “Not to the queen.” She glanced at Catling, the young woman as shocked as she.

  “No,” Vianne said, “not specifically to the queen."

  ***

  Catling trailed the two women as they ambled the potted garden. Colton walked beside her, the tall guard rarely out of sight. He doted on Lelaine like a lover, responding to her slightest need for assistance or her inconsequential comments about a stray breeze or a pleasant place to sit.

  Fog blanketed the swamp, swirling and dissipating like smoke in the midmorning sun. Lelaine smoldered, stiff-lipped, irritation radiating from her like heat from a bed of coals. Vianne paused to admire the young fruit on a terran cherry tree.

  “You are not disregarded, Lelaine.” Vianne plucked an unripe berry and continued their stroll. “Catling serves you precisely for that reason. Her shield is your power. She frees your will, a suitable balance to our abilities. You are not a tyrant or idiot, but imagine if you were. If our oaths were to you above the realm, they would trap us on a path to destruction.”

  The queen sighed. “My father would have married me to the Shiplord in his last days.”

  “I prevented that from happening through the application of influence,” Vianne said. “For the benefit of Ellegeance. Do you object?”

  “I am most grateful.”

  They approached the hall, and one of several guards that swarmed around them like honeybees opened the door. Colton entered first and Catling last, trailing them into the corridor, relieved that Lelaine’s pique had tempered.

  A servant scampered down the hall to prepare refreshments. Lelaine smoothed her jacket into place and tossed back her ringlets. “In light of your concern for the realm, Vianne, what do you recommend I do regarding the Far Wolds?”

  “It’s a complicated question,” Vianne replied. “I would first disregard any voice suggesting the situation will simply fade away with time, an opinion which the Ellegeans ruling in Tor espouse. Their influencers assured us that the clans benefit from the settlements, and they insist that when the Farlanders adjust, they'll be overjoyed with our presence. It sounds unlikely.”

  “Expansion serves the realm,” Lelaine said. “The Founders surely didn’t expect us to limit our habitation to the tiers.”

  “Why not expand east and west?’ Vianne asked. “Why set our sights on the Far Wolds? It’s cold and hardly arable.”

  “We’re already there with three settlements.”

  “Kadan and the influencers from Guardian spoke strongly for intervention before the conflict escalates. Apparently, High Ward Algar continues to hang Farlander men and women whenever his guards run them aground in the foothills.”

  “He hangs children, too,” Catling piped in, unable to contain her words.

  Lelaine glanced at her. “One day we shall need to do something about High Ward Algar.”

  The allusion to assassination was lost on no one, the dearth of opposition comforting. Catling could kill Algar with a touch. Influence granted her the power of death, and she would wield it when the opportunity struck. She furrowed her brow as Kadan drifted into her thoughts. Would he perceive her action as a betrayal? Would he rejoice? To her very core, she tried not to care. In killing Algar, she would safeguard countless lives.

  Vianne followed Colton through the open door into the doyen’s meeting chamber. “In all matters regarding unrest, Your Grace, you would do well to engage with Guardian.”

  “I appreciate the necessity of an alliance.” Lelaine strode to the sideboard where a goblet of wine awaited her, watered down per Vianne’s instructions. “However, I refuse to surrender my leadership to military despots who believe young queens have no place in a war room. And I won’t be patronized.”

  “I’ve known Commander Jagur for ages.” Vianne smiled. “He falls somewhere between kitten and crag bear. You will find him passingly cordial.”

  Catling rested her elbows on the windowsill, her shield in place. She had encountered the ornery commander on two separate occasions. Most recently in Elan-Sia when Whitt worked as his page, a full-fledged member of the Warriors’ Guild.

  “I would second the recommendation,” a voice said. Catling spun to find the swarthy Barrick-Kar standing in the doorway, Colton blocking his path. Minessa’s silver-haired father shared her wide face, and a glint of humor lit his coal-dark eyes.

  “Barrick-Kar.” Lelaine waved Colton aside as she swept toward the lean man. “Are you here to propose to me? I would welcome a bond if you weren’t old enough be my grandfather.” She laughed and hugged him.

  He bowed. “I would welcome the union for the realm’s sake. However, your youthful energy would wear me out within a year’s time.”

  Lelaine returned to the sideboard for more wine. “At times, Barrick-Kar, I wonder if you are my only friend among the high wards. Please, join me.”

  “Too early in the day, Your Grace.” Barrick waved her off. “I have the constitution of an old man.” He bowed to Vianne. “Vianne-Ava.”

  “Shall we sit,” Vianne suggested. As they settled into the upholstered chairs, Colton resumed his watch at the door, and Catling leaned on the wall by the window.

  “Tell me,” Lelaine asked, “what brings you to Ava-Grea? How is your daughter?”

  The man’s eyebrows rose. “Minessa is a well-trained healer of exemplary quality. Perhaps you should consider adding Farlanders to your ranks.” He nodded toward Vianne who accepted the compliment and suggestion with a polite smile. “I’ve scarcely seen her since our arrival. At the moment, she’s in the capable hands of Kadan-Mur. It seems they have a burgeoning fondness for each other.”

  He winked at Catling as if she were somehow privy to the romance. A mask of delight slid over her surprise, and she ignored the question in Vianne’s eyes.

  She had seen hints of their affection, glaring hints now that she viewed them with the benefit of hindsight. Her heart ached, in part because neither of her friends had mentioned their feelings for each other, but also because Vianne’s old warning proved true. Catling’s oath would override all parts of her life and future. Her intimate encounters with Kadan were finished. Vianne had manipulated her into hope and heartbreak.


  “Forgive my unintentional eavesdropping.” Barrick’s tone turned grave. “I’m in agreement that the Far Wolds are desirous of your attention. Yet I’d argue that the provinces comprise the more pressing crisis. Though they fall short of treason, the high wards plot, raise militias from among the destitute, and plan for their ascension when your reign falters. Tier guards are sworn to the tiers. You will benefit from a strong alliance with Guardian, whose vow is to the realm.”

  “Not to me,” Lelaine grumbled, emptying her wine goblet.

  Barrick shook his head. “Not as I understand it. Yet, you are the queen, the symbol of the realm and a woman I am proud to stand behind.”

  A smile quirked the queen’s lips. “A proposal after all?”

  “Only if it serves,” Barrick said. “It would resolve the most extraneous of your problems.”

  Lelaine huffed. “I have no plans to bond at all, my loyal friend. I intend to order the tier wards to bond with each other and be done with all this nonsense.”

  “Is that wise?” Vianne asked. “You need an heir.”

  “Anatomy doesn’t require a bond,” Lelaine remarked. She raised her goblet to Catling, signaling for more wine. Catling refilled the goblet, certain Lelaine noticed its watery thinness.

  “A declaration may put the question to rest,” Barrick conceded. “However, Vianne is correct. The high wards connive, and if you die without an heir, you will leave a queendom in turmoil. We’ll have every jack with a trace of legitimate royal blood vying for power beside a horde of bastards.”

  Lelaine sighed. “I’ve no doubt you both speak the truth. I shall put all my energy into producing an heir once our rogue tier wards are subdued, the Far Wolds are at peace, and the Cull Tarr sail back at sea.” She smiled. “Help me see that done, and you shall have a gaggle of future monarchs.”

  “The question of Guardian?” Barrick asked.

  “Ah, yes.” She swiveled to face Vianne. “Send a dove to Commander Jagur. Advise him that the queen requires his counsel in Elan-Sia. As my balance of power, Vianne, you will return to Elan-Sia with us.”

  Vianne stiffened, her eyes darting to the window like a caged bird. “That’s hardly necessary. I have duties here.”

  “I insist,” Lelaine said. “Not only do you vouch for the commander’s integrity, but I’m quite certain influence will play a role in our plans.”

  While Vianne’s shoulders sagged, Catling smiled. If the commander traveled to Elan-Sia, so would Whitt.

  Chapter Twenty

  On the balls of his feet, Whitt swung his staff. It whipped under one armpit, spun forward, and flipped up for a lightning crack to an imaginary chin. He grinned at the speed, nothing a new recruit couldn’t achieve with a few seasons’ practice but impressive nonetheless. Applying it in battle was a whole other matter. He ran through another form, the stick whirring through the air.

  “Now with the enemy,” he said, facing one of the straw bales rigged to a frame. “Ready position, staff in the armpit, end straight forward. I’ll slow it down. Head shot, chin, return head shot. You’re back where you started.” He demonstrated it on the opposite side. “Ready position, head, chin, return.”

  Outside the circle of recruits, Tavor narrowed his eyes. The bald, hawk-nosed sergeant had ambled up from the sprawling fortress slung along the massif between two Fangwold peaks. He watched the practice, arms folded over this chest, and clearly unimpressed. Whitt smiled when the man grabbed a staff from one of the recruits. The ends were padded, but the shaft could smack a nasty welt if not bust a bone. Fear was a major impediment in man-to-man practice.

  “Let’s see how you do against a warrior,” he said. The recruits backed up, grinning at the prospect of a show.

  Whitt bowed and moved away from the straw dummy, gesturing to the boys. “Move farther back or risk a few teeth.” His weapon snapped to his armpit, a grin splitting his face.

  Tavor skipped the bow and leapt forward, staff aimed for Whitt’s head. Whitt deflected and ducked a reverse strike while swiping at the man’s ankles. Tavor shuffled back and stepped in, his stick hammering and blocked before it dented Whitt’s skull. Whitt retreated to catch his breath, but Tavor had none of that. The man’s staff flew like a whirlwind, catching him on the ribs rather than his exposed throat, a choice Whitt appreciated even though it punched the air from his lungs.

  Fighting for breath, Whitt lunged, the pain in his side like a spear. He feigned a straight-on strike to Tavor’s chest. The man blocked and Whitt spun in, elbow flying up into the scruffy jaw. Tavor grunted, grabbed Whitt’s hair—what there was to grab—yanked backward, and put his full weight into flattening him to the ground, an arm across his throat, eyes gleaming like a mad man.

  “Mercy,” Whitt shouted, palms open.

  Tavor rolled to his feet and offered a hand up. Whitt winced at the pain in his ribs. He needed a moment to unbend but was otherwise intact. “Lesson?” he asked the recruits.

  “Don’t fight fair,” a more daring boy called out.

  “Exactly.” Whitt wiped his sleeve across his sweaty forehead. “In a real fight, the goal is survival.”

  “Commander wants you at the south gatehouse,” Tavor said.

  “When?” Whitt batted the dust from his trousers.

  “Now.” Tavor snatched his staff from the ground and tossed it to the unarmed recruit with new orders, “Start practicing your forms on the bales. I’m taking over.”

  “Nice of you to cover me in dirt,” Whitt groused.

  “My pleasure.”

  Whitt rubbed his sore ribs, shouldered his staff, and walked up from the rocky field to the stone fortress that dominated Guardian, the only Ellegean city built entirely of materials natural to the planet. It guarded the pass through the Fangwold Mountains, keeping the Farlanders out of the land that had been theirs. Now Tor, Falcyn, and Outlyer encroached on the cold Wolds beyond the mountains, and Whitt didn’t approve at all.

  The commander’s headquarters and private chambers were in the main citadel along with the armory. Adjacent wood buildings housed ancillary services including a cavernous dining hall with sweltering kitchens and a monstrous central hearth. Barracks spread to the east with the training fields and timberlands. Private cottages crowded the western end of the plateau with hardscrabble farms, pastures, and smithies. The air smelled like smoke and grease. This far south, bitter winds consumed half the year, and Whitt’s blood thickened to syrup.

  The south gatehouse meant visitors from the Far Wolds, most likely a delegation of Farlanders or they wouldn’t have hesitated to enter the city. Whitt crossed the killing field between the inner and outer walls, a dirt expanse that would see a hailstorm of black arrows should the city face an invasion.

  Four snow-haired Farlanders with spears and sleek longbows stood within the walls. Three of them were men in tall boots, thigh-length camgras jerkins, and short hooded cloaks, weapons wreathing their hips. They were tall and long-limbed with slanted eyes and pale green spots like thumbprints climbing their exposed arms. All three bore ritual scars carved into their faces, an indication that none of them possessed their people’s gift, a lucky thing in light of the tension heavy in the Harvest air.

  Smaller in size, the woman still stood a half-head taller than he. She wore similar clothes as the men except for a short leather vest over her woolen shirt. A soft belt slung around her hips sported two sheathed knives. She sized him up with green eyes set in a flawless face. Her flaxen hair, far shorter than the men’s long locks, curled at her ears. If she was gifted, he couldn’t tell by looking at her.

  Eight guardians in green warriors’ garb and light leather armor stood warily behind the commander, a bear of a man by his own right. He faced the Farlanders, broad in body, his dark hair and trimmed whiskers streaked with silver.

  Whitt approached without caution, his childhood memories of the Farlanders a fond one. Nine years ago, trappers had come to the stead to trade furs, drink with old Scuff, and share a Bright
est Night banquet in the patchy front yard. They’d never made it home. Algar had captured and hung them all.

  All except Shafter, the man standing before him now.

  A mindless grin on his face, Whitt stared, doubtful the clansman recognized him. At seventeen summers, he no longer resembled the skinny sprout of his youth. He planted his staff and bowed to the Farlanders. “My respects.”

  “Algar is at it again.” Jagur rubbed his jaw. “They want us to do something about it.”

  “We should,” Whitt said, “for the realm’s sake. We should have ten years ago.” He nodded to Shafter. “I’m Whitt, from Scuff’s farm.”

  Shafter’s lips opened to speak, but he lost his chance. The shaft of a spear thwacked the side of Whitt’s head, and stars flashed behind his eyes. He stumbled sideways, his own stick snapping up too late to prevent his feet from flying out from under him and leveling him on his back. He grunted at the pain in his ribs and raised his staff over his chest, blocking a blow that hammered with enough force to split his skull.

  The woman crouched at the spear’s other end, her face furious. Two guardians, recovered from their initial shock, leapt forward.

  “It’s all right,” Whitt shouted, rolling to dodge her next strike. He scrambled to his feet, rasping a breath.

  The commander’s chin retracted, a perplexed expression furrowing his brow. The Farlanders smiled, and the guards stepped back when Jagur shrugged. “Yell when you’ve had enough.”

  Whitt’s staff swept up, knocking her next blow off target. He whipped the trailing end around and walloped her on the side, a hit that had to sting. From ready position, his stick spun, low enough to smack her shoulder rather than her head. It flipped up, smashing her fingers against her own weapon, and then swung down to clip her behind the knee. She went down with a grunt.

  He stood over her, panting, and offered a hand up. She accepted the help and, once on her feet, punched him in the nose. Her weapon flew around her waist and cracked into his ribs where Tavor thwacked him less than an hour ago. His knees gave. The end of her spear drew back to pound a hole in his skull, and Shafter gripped the far end, stopping the killing blow. “Enough, Sim.”