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

  “Fine, then,” she growled back. “We can drink on it. I can’t influence if I’m tippled.”

  “That would be fine,” he said, his lip twitching. “Let me wash up.”

  “Fine.”

  ***

  Catling sat across from Whitt on the eleventh tier’s sunny side, the home of the Artisan’s and Academian Guilds. The tavern entranced her, its interior sectioned with large panes of stained glass from Lim-Mistral. Wood and metalcraft sculptures embellished the promenade’s garden seating, shaded by potted lissom trees. The food exemplified classic Elan-Sia, all delicacies from the Cull Sea.

  She sipped on a goblet of lissom juice, certain the queen would call upon her shield. Over the cup’s rim, she marveled at how much he had changed in the past five years. He stood taller, yet again, and filled his skin with solid strength she could feel when she hugged him. No sign remained of the thin-wristed waif she’d loved as a scrawny child herself. His hair had darkened with age, and he wore it short in the Guardian style. When she sat back and studied him as a stranger might, she beheld a handsome man, one she might fall in love with if he didn’t already possess her heart.

  Her fingers brushed her eye, aware of the rose birthmark that defined her face, the first thing anyone noticed and the only feature they remembered. She’d promised Ava-Grea’s Poisoner he could finish it, fill in the holes, and smooth the tattered edges, and she hadn’t fulfilled the promise. Perhaps he would transform the ugliness into something appealing… if she dared risk her power.

  Whitt pulled her hand down. “I like your eye. You wouldn’t be Catling without it. You’re beautiful.”

  The compliment tugged out a shy smile, hiding the emotion welling in her chest. “Do you remember in the barn, how we planned to live there forever? Those days seemed so innocent. For a whole year, I was the happiest I’ve ever been.”

  “The stead…” Horror filled his eyes as he stared at her. “I never told you what hap—”

  “I know, Whitt,” she said quickly, a finger to her lips. “I know what happened. Vianne told me. I’m so sorry. I had no way of knowing I’d cause—”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” he interrupted, taking her hand. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. I knew you would feel responsible, but you weren’t. There was nothing either of us could have done to prevent it. We were children without power or choices. I would never blame you.”

  Catling gazed at the sea, blinking back her tears.

  “They’re not all dead,” he said softly. “Vianne doesn’t know. Almost no one knows besides me and now you.”

  “Who?” She met his eyes, his words too slow in coming.

  “Mouser, Daisy, and Gussy.” He smiled. “They live with other families. No one else knows.”

  “Have you seen them? Are they happy?”

  He shook his head. “I thought it best to let them be. Until Guardian, I wasn’t certain I’d survive.”

  He told her about his year in the Mur-Vallis warrens, and his life in the swamps outside Ava-Grea. She’d learned some details of that time from Raker and Jafe, but Whitt told his tales with a wry humor and perspective only another outsider could understand.

  “Guardian is like a family in some ways,” he said. “My commander is a fair man, and we all live by the same rules. He doesn’t have much tolerance for stupidity, and he keeps the influencers out of his sight unless a visitor brings one. He can’t tolerate them.”

  “I’m an influencer.” Catling sat up straight. “I forgot you didn’t know. When I swore my oath to the queen, the heiress at the time, she ordered me into training.”

  For several heartbeats, Whitt blinked at her, saying nothing. “You’re an influencer? Why?”

  “The queen commanded and I obeyed… my oath. I didn’t request it or desire it.”

  He sat back, his forehead creased and eyes dark as storm clouds.

  “I’m still me, Whitt.” She watched him slipping away from her. “I know you detest influencers. I do too, in general. Influencers have made a muddle of my life… and yours. Yet, I’m still me. I haven’t used influence on you; I swear I haven’t. It would never occur to me. I would never betray your trust.”

  He stared at her, brooding. Tears welled in her eyes, and she let them come. Without a word, he stood up, and as he dropped a half-silver on the table, she choked back a sob. He grabbed her hand and pulled her up into an embrace. “I trust you completely, Catling. I always will.”

  ***

  While Catling waited, Whitt washed and changed in preparation for the queen’s banquet. They climbed the coiled staircases to the twentieth tier, the feast to take place in a more intimate hall with an expansive view of the sea. He didn’t doubt it would be beautiful with the moons gliding over luminescent waves. A pity that Brightest Night lay many weeks away.

  He’d traversed the shock of Catling’s revelation, though it had taken longer than he let on. His words of trust hadn’t been a lie, and he did trust her. Yet, other assumptions shifted. Plans, perhaps, or at least possibilities for the future seemed less certain. That she’d sworn a life-long binding oath to the queen was somehow less daunting than her power to sway emotions, to create experiences of pleasure and pain, to heal or kill. The news overwhelmed him, and he needed time to sort it out.

  The guards at the top of the stairs relieved him of his knives and short sword and let them pass onto the tier. With time to spare, they strolled the girding promenade, relishing the view and the salty, living fragrance in the cool air.

  There were others enjoying the promenade in addition to the occasional guard in an azure jacket, dutifully armed. Catling hung on Whitt’s arm, her jacket emerald green, a color she said represented pleasure. She’d loosely bound her hair with green ribbons and threaded pearls.

  A petite woman in an azure cloak walked toward them, all but her smile hidden in her cowl. Whitt nodded a greeting, and as she passed, her hand reached out. Whitt sidestepped, pulling Catling with him, instinctively expecting a weapon. Her hand missed Catling’s arm. It seemed an odd gesture.

  “Do you know her?” he asked.

  “No.” She peered up at him as the woman grabbed her wrist from behind. Catling’s eyes rolled back in her head.

  Whitt spun her out of the woman’s grasp, her body limp. “Help! Guards!” He lowered her to the tier. “Guards!” The cloaked woman’s eyes darted from Catling to him, and a blast of agony ripped through his chest. He gasped, clutching at his heart as he crumbled to his knees. The pain seared his lungs and choked his breath.

  The woman lunged for Catling. He kicked her away, and her cowl fell back, revealing a grim face with wide-set eyes. Two guards bolted toward them, stumbled, and fell. They clutched their chests and writhed. Whitt crawled between the influencer and Catling, his heart on the verge of exploding. Blinding fear engulfed him, and he gritted his teeth, battling the urge to flee.

  Another guard charged from between a cluster of buildings, a woman with carrot-red hair tight on his heels. The guard twisted and dropped to a knee, his face contorted. The woman slowed and raised her palms to the assailant. “Gisalle, what are you doing? Stop!”

  “Get out of my way, Chava,” the woman growled.

  Chava shot a look at Catling, and Whitt felt a surge of pleasure conflict with the pain in his chest. He gulped a breath and shook his head, attempting to clear the paralyzing confusion. The cloaked influencer stalked toward him.

  “She’s a traitor,” the redhead shouted, edging around Whitt.

  “Stay away,” he yelled, “both of you!”

  “No!” Chava pleaded. “Listen to me; Catling needs me. Keep Gisalle away! She’s a traitor. She tried to kill the queen.”

  Another blast of pleasure hit Whitt in the chest, blended with a profound love and trust that decided his mind. He rose to a crouch and turned on Gisalle. An uncontrollable rage swept through him, unnatural and terrifying, burning through all other feelings. Influence, he knew it and let it flood his veins.

 
Gisalle wiped her hair from her face and hissed a string of bitter oaths. Pain bloomed in his head, but his loathing flared brighter, both influencers fighting for control of his mind and body.

  “Don’t touch her,” Chava shouted behind him. “She’ll kill you.”

  Whitt didn’t care. He would crush her with his bare hands. The guards were on their feet, scowls equally intense as they advanced.

  Gisalle backed up, eyes darting, cringing, fear shrinking her power. “Oathbreaker!” she screamed at the redhead. She lashed out at Whitt. Emotions flew through him without pattern—horror, hatred, terror, agony, misery, despair. They all glanced off his fury like rain on steel. He would bend her in half and tear off her head with his teeth. Then a guard staggered up behind her and stabbed her through. The blade’s tip punctured the front of her jacket, and her mouth gaped. She collapsed to the tier.

  Whitt stepped back and dragged in a breath, the miasma of feelings vanished, all of it gone in an instant. He leaned over and vomited. More guards arrived, the commotion disorienting. He turned toward Catling. She lay on the tier, resting in the redhead’s arms, her face pale but her eyes open. “She stopped my heart.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Your thoughts regarding the attack?” Jagur inquired of the queen. The last night’s festivities had ended before they began, and the queen had postponed the morning’s discussion of the provinces to accommodate the latest trouble. She chose to convene in the council room without the council, a decision piquing his interest.

  The child-queen paced, far too young for leadership, in his sober opinion. She pivoted and faced him. “Gisalle made an attempt on my life previously. I washed up on a Cull Tarr ship, and if not for Gannon’s rescue, Shipmaster Tilkon would have delivered me to the Shiplord for a bonding.”

  She turned on her heel, blond ringlets flouncing. “My rescue was likely a fluke, though part of me wondered if the Cull Tarr hadn’t a hand in my near drowning. They wouldn’t have known about Catling. Gannon knew, but I doubt he disclosed her secret. He’d have no reason.”

  “Gannon.” Whitt frowned. “I heard he was dead.”

  “Apparently not,” Jagur said. “Now, who’s Gannon?”

  “An Ellegean who served for a year on a Cull Tarr ship,” the queen said. “He provided a rather interesting summary of Cull Tarr Protocols.”

  “He’s more than a mere Ellegean.” Vianne sat at the table’s far end, her elegance returned after their awkward start on the pier. Jagur had rather enjoyed watching her drink by moonlight and would have liked to unpin her hair.

  She cleared her throat when she caught him staring. “Gannon hails from the Mur-Vallis warrens. I believe you encountered him and Catling some time ago when addressing Algar-Mur’s fondness for hanging his citizens.” He recalled the meeting but not the man and gestured for her to continue.

  “Gannon discovered Catling’s ability and used her talent to disrupt the high ward’s hangings. I used him to find her. He’s provided assistance to me on other occasions.”

  The young woman, Catling, sat beside Vianne, Whitt hovering around her like a mother bear. She held a cup of tea with two hands, her color returned after her brief encounter with death. He figured he should recall the distinct blotch around her eye, but then he barely remembered to wear socks. “And what is your talent?”

  “I’m an influencer,” Catling said.

  “There’s no influence in use here,” the queen assured him. “I dislike influencers, though I employ them and find them useful at times. They stir the cauldron and destroy intuition, which more often than not, provides valuable insight regarding choice.”

  Jagur nodded. “I couldn’t have said it better, Your Grace.” He ignored Vianne’s huff.

  The queen took her seat, elbows on the table, her chin resting on her laced fingers as she sized him up. She reminded him of Vianne in her younger years, too smart for her ribbons. She sat back. “I’m interested in how you and I might work together, Commander. I need warriors for both internal and external threats.”

  “Guardian serves the realm,” he said.

  The queen laughed. “It seems all my allies serve Ellegeance over my person. I’ve become so accustomed to my secondary ranking that it scarcely ruffles my feathers to hear it thrown in my face. Fortunately, I also serve the realm over my own desires, status, and ambitions. I ask for an alliance only because we are already aligned.”

  Jagur inhaled. “Guardian would be honored by an alliance, Your Grace. However, such altruism hasn’t been my experience.”

  “I appreciate your honesty, Commander, despite the commentary on my father’s rule.”

  “My apologies, Your Grace, but I’m not a man to fawn.”

  “I shall wear my armor if I must. I insist on the truth.” The queen sighed and turned her gaze toward Catling. “Now for a bit more truth. Catling has a singular gift. She is an influencer, yes, but she can also block influence. She’s my shield. When she is in the room, influence is futile, our thoughts and feelings and bodies are our own.”

  “Is that so?” He didn’t intend to sound skeptical, but he’d never heard of such a talent. Catling nodded and Vianne smiled, a reaction he would need time to ponder.

  “I vouch for her ability,” Whitt said. “That’s how Gannon disrupted the hangings in Mur-Vallis and why Vianne took her to Ava-Grea.”

  “It’s the reason Algar killed our family,” Catling whispered with a glance at Whitt. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

  Jagur poured himself a goblet of water, using the pause to consider the various benefits of a shield. Rather rapidly, he decided they were incalculable. He glanced at Vianne, viewing the woman in an entirely different light. “You sabotage your own influence?”

  “For the realm. I’ve always attempted to honor my oath.”

  His attention shifted to Catling. “And your oath?”

  “To the queen.”

  He rubbed his jaw, considering the potential for complications. So far, the queen impressed him beyond his imagining. If he’d spoken his initial skepticism aloud, he’d be bending a knee and begging forgiveness. For a near child, she knew what she was up to.

  “Who knows about Catling besides Gannon?” he asked.

  “My councilors do not,” the queen said.

  “Ah, thus their absence. Other influencers?”

  “No one in Elan-Sia,” Catling replied.

  “Someone knows,” Jagur said. “You were targeted.”

  “The doyen in Ava-Grea know,” Vianne said. “It couldn’t be helped.”

  “And Kadan,” Catling said. “Though I trust he’s kept my secret.”

  “Who’s Kadan,” Jagur asked, the list growing longer than his wished.

  “An influencer, Algar’s nephew.” Vianne held up a hand to forestall an interruption. “I agree with Catling; it’s unlikely that Kadan betrayed us. Algar, on the other hand, is no fool. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s harbored suspicions from the days when Gannon and Catling wreaked havoc in his markets. He could very well be our culprit.”

  “A number of connections lead to Mur-Vallis.” Jagur pulled his pipe from his pocket and addressed the queen. “What’s your relationship with Algar, Your Grace?”

  “The same challenges I have with most other high wards. They want me to bond with them, their children, grandchildren, cousins or uncles. Except for Barrick, every one of them suffers from delusions. Algar singed the very air when I denied him. I worry that he might suspect Catling of interfering with his influencer.”

  “Kadan didn’t attempt to influence, Your Grace,” Catling said. “He knew I wouldn’t allow it.”

  “What are the doyen doing about this?” Jagur eyed Vianne. “You manage the provinces. This turmoil can’t be in the realm’s best interest.”

  Vianne drew up her chin. “We don’t—”

  “Don’t be naive, Commander,” the queen warned. “They wait for a plausible winner before choosing sides.” She faced Vianne, challenging her to s
ay otherwise. “Tier influencers swear oaths to Ellegeance, their guild, their high wards. What benefits the realm is entirely a matter of perspective, and as long as the high wards don’t commit outright treason, the influencers are upholding their vows.”

  Jagur assumed as much. If the queen’s reign ended prematurely, with a single dominant successor, the Influencers’ Guild would make the best of it. Even Guardian wouldn’t opt for civil war. “You realize, Your Grace, that we face escalating conflicts in the Far Wolds?”

  “I’m not ignorant of the strife in the settlements, Commander, but they must wait. Barrick-Kar reports that the high wards plot against the throne and all believe they are entitled to rule. Tier guards are bound to the tiers, and new militias swell their ranks with the warrens’ poor. He warns that the loudest voices originate in Mur-Vallis, Bes-Strea, and Lim-Mistral, but the warrens are in turmoil across the map.”

  “I can spare men to provide oversight in the three cities of greatest concern, Your Grace, but Guardian hasn’t the boots to maintain order in all the warrens. Have you considered why the warrens are uprising?”

  “I’ve always left the warrens to the tier wards to manage.” The queen pressed her fingertips to her temples.

  “They want opportunity,” Catling said, “to be treated with dignity. They need steps out of endless poverty and a future for their children.”

  “Of course.” The queen smiled at her. “Gannon’s words. He liked the Cull Tarr concept of a vote.”

  “What exactly is it you desire of Guardian, Your Grace?” Jagur asked.

  “It’s simply stated, Commander.” She folded her hands on the table. “Help me preserve Ellegeance. Prepare to respond in the event we face an uprising.”

  ***

  A smile edged onto Whitt’s face as Elan-Sia drifted into the distance. Harnessed waterdragons pulled Guardian’s ferry south against the current. He and Catling had shared sweet memories of the stead, and in doing so, cauterized the wounds of loss. They’d aired the musty secrets of their years apart until all that remained was the trust and intimacy of a too brief childhood.