Oathbreakers' Guild (The Rose Shield Book 2) Read online

  Whitt looked up. “Sim?” He wiped the blood from his nose.

  His childhood friend stood over him, scowling and sucking on her swollen fingers. She shouted at him, “I never saw my family again. They went to your farm and never returned to me. Your Algar dog hung them all.”

  A guard helped Whitt up. He stood before her, his side aching and nose dripping blood. He dabbed his forearm to his upper lip. “Algar killed my family, Sim. Scuff and my mother, Wenna, Piper, and the twins.”

  Shafter shook his head, his eyes challenging the commander. Jagur’s face turned to granite. Whitt waited for Sim to say something. Her lip trembled as her eyes filled with tears. She tossed the spear to her companions and hugged him. He closed his eyes to the ache in his bruised ribs and sighed.

  ***

  Whitt camped beyond the outer wall with the Farlanders. There the pole pines offered shelter from the night wind scouring down from the Fangwolds, smelling of snow. A fire cracked within a circle of stones. Sim squatted near the flames, pale hair gleaming as she fed the blaze. She stole glances at him while Shafter skinned and spitted a hare for their meal. The music and dancing of his childhood remained a memory of the past.

  “I headed south from your stead.” Shafter recounted his escape over the mountains. “I thought I should go to Mur-Vallis and kill Ellegeans, but I didn’t know which ones should pay for my friends’ lives.”

  “Algar hung them,” Whitt said. “You wouldn’t have reached him, and you would have died for no reason.”

  Shafter glanced up, eyes cold as the stars. “I needed to warn the clan. I had to tell Sim and become her father.” He smiled, and the scars on his face wrinkled.

  Sim lent him a tiresome glance but didn’t deny his role.

  “Is that when you added your scars?” When Whitt last saw him, Shafter had crescent runes carved along his hairline and slits cut into his tapered ears. Now, every inch of his face and arms bore the symbolic mutilations.

  “Before then,” Shafter said. “In the mountains, I slashed my body, hundreds of blood trails. I floated in the Whiprill to welcome the light in my skin and ask for a vision.”

  “Did you receive one?” Whitt asked.

  “I am stronger,” Shafter said in response. “I will protect the land.”

  “Can you see the luminescence?” Whitt asked, then amended the question. “In everything? The plants and animals? The mountains?”

  “It’s not what you think.” Sim poked at the fire with a stick. “Wister was an exception, a mage; usually only women carry the gift and few at that.”

  “I saw Wister call the birds,” Whitt said. The man had stood at the tier’s edge moments before Algar hung him. Bromel, Tum, and Brid were already dead.

  The hare spitted, Shafter handed it to Sim, and she set it on two forked sticks propped in place by rocks. She sat back on her rump, forearms on her knees. The other two clansmen, Lian and Ranger, returned to the camp with armfuls of wood they dropped by the fire. When they joined in the warmth, Whitt handed them a loaf of bread he’d pilfered from the Guardian kitchen. He tossed a second loaf to Shafter.

  “Why did Mur-Vallis hang your family?” Sim asked.

  “His guards killed them at the stead,” Whitt said. Sim had never met Catling, and the details were too complicated to explain. “Mouser, and two little ones, Daisy and Gussy, live with other families. I haven’t seen them since.”

  “We share a history.” She selected a stick from the woodpile. “My regrets, Whitt.”

  “My regrets, Sim,” he said, his sadness reflected in her green eyes.

  She smiled and placed the stick, not into the flames but planted in the ground, and as he watched, leaves began to grow.

  ***

  In the morning, Tavor showed up to haul him back to the citadel. “I’m feeling like the old man’s page lately,” he grumbled. “Commander needs a new page to keep track of his page.”

  “He’s looking,” Whitt said, the ache in his side snarling as he walked.

  “Not hard enough.” Tavor gave him a sideways glance. “I don’t recollect smacking you in the face.”

  “Sim,” Whitt explained, fingers to his swollen nose. “The woman from the Far Wolds. I knew her family.”

  “Nice girl.” The bald sergeant didn’t inquire further, and Whitt had no desire to explain the hangings all over again.

  “What does Jagur want?” Whitt asked.

  “We’re going north with him. The queen sent a summons, and he figures he might as well add the Far Wolds to their conversation. You’re signed up as the expert.”

  “I’m no expert,” Whitt balked. “I’ve never even traveled there. I know four people and none of them well.”

  “Expert enough.”

  “I think we’re due for some snow.” Whitt glanced up at the clouds capping the peaks. “When are we leaving?”

  “As soon as your gear’s packed.”

  Before the next bell, Whitt tied his pack to the rear of his saddle and mounted with a groan that sucked his breath away. He figured that between Tavor and Sim he’d cracked a rib or two and needed half a season before he picked up his staff again.

  A day later, Whitt, the commander, and a group of ten guardians descended a rough-hewn road to a sapphire lake. There a cloak of mist sparkled above a plummeting white fall. Harvest cold rimmed the waystation’s shore with crusty ice, and smoke wafted from chimneys into somber clouds.

  Tied up by a lodge on the eastern bank, the commander’s ferry rocked at its moorings. With no reasons to delay and plenty to keep moving, they embarked.

  Whitt gripped the rail as the ferry neared the lake’s lip and picked up speed. The crew stowed their long oars and took up their poles. The trip downstream wouldn’t require the strength of waterdragons, but it demanded the crew’s expert skill. Below the mirror lake, the South River rapids ran fast and shallow. The watercourse sluiced between rock walls and sped through the foothills, joining with the Slipsilver south of Ava-Grea. The clouds thinned into wisps of silk as they journeyed north, and the threat of snow faded from memory.

  The river washed into a wide swamp, a place Whitt recalled with fondness. Moss-draped caliph trees rose from the rich luminescence on reptilian roots large as doorways. White witchwood and elbrin with its blue-green leaves grew on the soggy hummocks that mounded from the water, pungent and feathered with ferns. They smelled ripe, teeming with green life and Harvest’s decay.

  After his hardships in the warrens of Mur-Vallis, the swamps had saved his life. He’d learned from Raker and Jafe how to survive and snared his share of crajeks. They’d offered him an uncomplicated life, one he’d turned down for a chance at Guardian.

  He stood at the bow, observing Ava-Grea as the ferry flowed by. Somewhere, on one of the twelve tiers, Catling spent her days. He hadn’t seen her in five years, and their meeting had been clumsy, the secret of their family’s death an unbreakable barrier between them. He’d craved her comfort, the shared tears, but he hadn’t told her, afraid she would feel responsible. Perhaps he’d made a mistake, and maybe it no longer mattered. He doubted he’d see her again.

  He joined the commander at a portable table erected on the deck. Jagur smoked his pipe, the heady odor dissipating in the breeze. The deck served for all but sleeping, the quarters below saddling the old man with a queasy stomach and foul mood. Fortunately, the weather cooperated and the northern Harvest air bordered on balmy.

  “Have a seat.” Jagur poured a dash of spike into his greenleaf. “In case you were wondering, it helps with the roll.” He puffed on his pipe as Whitt swung a leg over a crate. “I heard you had a pleasant chat with the Farlanders.”

  “I had a chat, not much of it pleasant.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “My opinion or what the books say?”

  “I can read,” the commander said. “Your opinion.”

  “The Founders never considered the Farlanders or fenfolk when they planted the tiers. People inhabited this pla
net. I don’t know what the Founders were thinking.”

  “Not hard to guess,” Jagur said.

  “I suppose.”

  “Help yourself.” Jagur pointed to the pot of greenleaf with his pipe.

  Whitt poured himself a cup and skipped the spike. “The Founders weren’t gods; they were conquerors. They drove the people south and into the swamps. Not praiseworthy, but it might have worked if Ellegeance hadn’t continued in the tradition of aggressor.”

  “They were compensated for their land,” Jagur reminded him.

  “That assumes they think like we do,” Whitt said. “We’ve purchased something that can’t be owned. Sim’s father, Bromel, visited our farm every year. He said no one could own the land. No one can own the air or water or clouds or sunshine. They believe you can only possess something you’ve created with your own hands; otherwise, it’s a gift of the planet and exists for the enjoyment and use of all.”

  “Keep going.”

  Whitt sipped his tea, trying to summon up the lessons of his childhood and fit them in with what Sim had shared by the fire. “It’s complicated. They claim the planet is alive. Not only the plants and animals, those things we accept as living, but the rocks and rivers. And not just alive but sentient. It’s the luminescence, the blood of one great beast, the planet. We are the parasites living on its skin.”

  The commander frowned. “Makes me want to bathe.”

  “Sim was angry.” Whitt smirked. “But it illustrates the viewpoint. How does the parasite own the host?”

  “Use another metaphor,” Jagur ordered and dragged on his pipe.

  “You shouldn’t have educated me.” Whitt spotted Tavor heading their way. “By the way, Tavor wants you to hire a new page.”

  “Fed up being the errand boy,” Tavor called in passing.

  Jagur eyed them both. “What about their magic tricks?”

  “The pages?” Whitt asked, confused by the question.

  “The Farlanders.” Jagur rolled his eyes to the sky and poured another dash of spike in his tea.

  “Oh,” Whitt chuckled. “If luminescence is the planet’s blood and it resides in all things, then it resides in the Farlanders and fenfolk as well. If they’re all parts of one creature, then they work in unity.” He paused to think. “Like our bodies. Everything works together, most of it without thought but not all. We can will ourselves to action. The Farlanders, usually women, can will other parts of the… planet. The men cut themselves to draw the luminescence into their bodies, but to tell the truth, I don’t think it’s much more than a symbolic act.”

  Jagur studied him, and Whitt could almost see the cogs grinding in his head. “Have you seen it?”

  Whitt paused. What Sim had done felt private, an intimate secret for his eyes alone. “Once, in Mur-Vallis. A Farlander called down the birds before Algar hung him.”

  “Just that once?” Jagur lifted an eyebrow.

  “It happened the same day he hung Sim’s father and her siblings.”

  The commander sat back in his chair and puffed. “My regrets about your family. You never mentioned it.”

  Whitt sighed and scratched a hand through his short hair. “It was too hard to speak of at first, and then it didn’t seem… necessary.” He looked out over the river, Ava-Grea and Catling fading into the distance. “Algar sent his guards to our farm and murdered everyone. My youngest sisters and I escaped and hid in a tree. They live somewhere in Se-Vien now, I think.”

  “Algar isn’t well respected,” Jagur said. “I think Elan-Sia has been too lenient.”

  “What about Guardian?” Whitt asked, the accusation rising uncalled to his voice. “We bear an oath to the realm, including Mur-Vallis. Algar is dangerous. And the warrens should be a concern to the realm too. It’s a cauldron ready to boil over, crammed full of Ellegeans with nothing to lose. Mur-Vallis may not be typical, but warrens exist under all the cities, the ones that aren’t water-bound. The tiers are corrupt, and the influencers grease the wheels.” He sat back with a huff. “My regrets, Commander.”

  Jagur smiled. “Well, I see you’ll have plenty to share with the queen.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  On the Elan-Sia docks, Vianne paced like a young woman awaiting a tryst with a lover. The proof was observable in Catling, a young woman pacing with equal vigor. Jagur had dispatched a bird warning of his arrival, and Vianne wished to dispense with all awkwardness before embarrassing themselves in front of the queen.

  A reference to Whitt as part of the Guardian contingent meant she required Catling and Whitt to do the same. The maelstrom of feelings could blow any which way and needed to bluster itself out. For once, she saw no advantage in her power to influence, a realization making her laugh.

  Catling glanced at her, crossed her arms, and continued to pace.

  “I’m laughing at both of us,” Vianne said. “I’ll admit to avoiding this confrontation for half my life. I have as much to parse out with Jagur as you have with Whitt.”

  “You hardly hide your angst,” Catling said. “For a woman who seems in complete control, you fluster at every mention of his name.”

  The comment elicited a huff. Vianne hadn’t thought her angst so obvious. “We were to bond after my initiation. He served as a warrior of Guardian from a prominent family. The doyen warned me that bonds with influencers sink like old boats, and however much I longed to deny it, I not only sensed his suspicion of my abilities, but I found myself tempted to sway his emotions. In a panic, I left for Ava-Grea without the courtesy of a farewell.”

  She glanced at Catling and sighed. The young woman stared at her while she prattled like a cow-eyed moppet. Personal confessions were rare and part of this whole blasted scenario that put her on edge.

  “Do you care for him?”

  “I’m not made of stone. I’m capable of genuine affection.” Vianne’s eyebrows ground together as she paced. She’d never surrendered her fondness for him or the string of romantic dreams that occasionally haunted her sleep. They bubbled beneath layers of duty to Ellegeance and her guild.

  “Do you think he cares for you?” Catling persisted with the discussion.

  “I would be surprised if he recalls anything but my betrayal.”

  The ferry drifted into view in the distance and seemed to require half a day to moor. She and Catling stood like stone sentinels until the company of guardians debarked.

  At the sight of Whitt, Vianne cast a sideways glance at Catling’s broad smile and wished her own feelings possessed half the certainty. The two young people embraced for an eternity while she and Jagur watched like a pair of weathered pilings. Jagur’s bushy eyebrows rose, his expression stunned as if he hadn’t expected their reunion at all. Then again, years had passed, and Whitt couldn’t have known of Catling’s service to the queen. Vianne’s sense of control wobbled off-kilter, and a headache brewed behind her eyes.

  A clasp on Catling’s hand, Whitt faced Vianne. “Vianne-Ava, my respects.” He bowed and then rotated to address Jagur, “Commander Jagur, my… sister, Catling.” He grinned like a beggar with a full belly. “It’s a long story, Sir.”

  Catling bowed. “My respects, Commander. Welcome to Elan-Sia. The queen has given us leave until a feast this evening in honor of your visit. May I have command of Whitt’s time until then?”

  “I’ll lug the page’s gear,” a bald guardian said with a wink for Whitt.

  “Your wish is his command,” Jagur said, turning his attention to Vianne as the young couple strolled off down the docks. “Siblings?”

  “Adopted,” Vianne qualified.

  “Aah.”

  “We have accommodations for you and Whitt on the eighteenth tier and for your guardians on the seventeenth with the Queen’s Guard. I requested porters for your convenience.” She forced her restless jitters to stillness. “I’ll accompany you.”

  Hands behind his back, he nodded, and when the guardians and porters were loaded with gear, they headed up to the tiers and the lift.
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  Vianne made a point to breathe, exchanging pleasantries about the weather, the trip north, and the city. At least they didn’t march in stony silence. He looked much as she imagined, tall and broad if a bit thicker about the middle. His hair bore streaks of silver and his beard even more so. Her fingers brushed the gray at her temples, her age showing as well. He still smelled like pipe smoke with a hint of sweat, scents she hadn’t cared for… until now.

  They left the guardians on the seventeenth tier and ascended the spiral stair to the eighteenth. The lodgings for visiting dignitaries sat side by side with those for the Cull Tarr Ambassador, queen’s councilors, and the city’s influencers. She chose to withhold that information, including the fact that her own rooms were a mere two doors farther down the corridor. The porter had come and gone, leaving a locked chest in the center of his floor.

  Vianne caught herself playing with her hair and locked her hands behind her back. “I thought perhaps we might… I could… we might… prepare for tomorrow.”

  “For our counsel with the queen?” He faced her, hands on his hips.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you plan to influence me, Vianne?” The soft awkwardness she’d seen on their way up the tiers disappeared, and before her stood a hard man, the Commander of Guardian. “Is this summons a farce meant to gain my approval of a spurious plan, or does the queen want the truth and a real strategy for Ellegeance? I won’t be her lackey or yours for that matter.”

  “Is that so?” Vianne’s fists bolted to her hips, her fire up. “This is why a bond with you would never have worked. You don’t trust me in the least. I’d be surprised if you think I’m human and retain any sense of decency at all. No, I have no intention of influencing you. I don’t wander the realm influencing willy-nilly for the sheer enjoyment of manipulation. My vow is to the realm, same as yours, and neither of us benefits when one of us is a toady to another’s agenda.”

  “Fine.” His scowl stuck to his face.