Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3) Page 19

“Regarding?”

  “Hanging those who threaten a peaceful rule.”

  Catling avoided Lelaine’s gaze. The queen had ordered her to refrain from making a spectacle, and she would obey, but she would also speak the truth. “I believe in justice applied according to written law, and to rich and poor alike without accommodation for one’s power and wealth. Justice is too easily corrupted by personal opinion.”

  “Wisely stated,” he said. “Yet, even in Ellegeance, someone must speak for the laws. The Founders’ Protocols preach at length about the hierarchy of power. People are of different values to the health of a nation.” He gestured at Colton. “That this guard would give his life for his queen implies that her life is of greater value.”

  “My life is also forfeit for my queen’s sake.” Catling felt a touch of anger worming into her skin and wondered if the heat was her own or influenced. She relaxed her breath. “Yet, if we are debating the punishment of crimes, I would characterize laws that account for status as weak and the justification faulty.”

  Ambassador Linc’s mouth opened, but the Shiplord raised a hand. “A daring statement and true if one is not guided by the gods.”

  Catling met his eyes. “Laws lose their meaning if they can be changed on a man’s whim.”

  The Shiplord laughed, yet his mirth failed to reach his eyes. “I asked my question and received my answer. Since we are being truthful, I will inquire as to whether influencers break Ellegean law?”

  Catling stared at him and said nothing. Of course, they did. Oathbreakers and lawbreakers, influencers flouted the rules of their own volition or in obedience to their masters. The mere possession of power sanctioned their offenses.

  He smiled at her, victory shining in his eyes.

  Lelaine tugged on his arm. “We shall save further politics for tomorrow. Please stay, Catling, but you may visit with your friends.” She signaled to maintain the shield while directing her gaze at Kadan and Minessa.

  “My respects.” Catling bowed to the queen and Shiplord. She retreated along the tables, grateful for the freedom. The irritation prickling her skin vanished, and she scanned the room for influence, noting that it flew everywhere in a haphazardly spun web. Much of it seemed benign, meant to bolster authority or wheedle concessions, to flatter or insight romantic passion. She rubbed her unmarked eye, leaving her rose eye to behold the true emotions flooding the hall. For a moment, she studied the rich blends of color, the opacity or transparency, tightness or breadth of the auras. So much of each person’s nature was visible in the emotions they wore.

  “Catling.”

  She dropped her hand and turned to find Vianne at her elbow. “Vianne.”

  “Any luck influencing the Cull Tarr?”

  “If I’m successful, it’s so subtle I don’t notice.”

  “My experience as well.” Vianne sipped a cup of hot greenleaf. “I assume the elite are all pure to a great degree. Probably less widespread among the common jacks and citizens.”

  “I suspect so.”

  “Is the Shiplord seducing our queen?”

  Catling peered over Vianne’s shoulder at the couple, alone now that they’d dismissed the ambassador. They stood near an open window, and Lelaine laughed at something he’d said. The conversation appeared intimate and private, and the loitering guests who likely wished an audience kept their distance. “He’s charming and wily, Vianne. He might think she’s enamored, but he’s also patronizing and arrogant, which will keep her wary.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it.” She patted a cinnamon curl into place. “I’m pleased to be rid of Falco Linc as well. Better he’s here in Elan-Sia than in Ava-Grea. Anyone that amiable leaves me suspicious, especially if he’s Cull Tarr.”

  “Forgive me if I refrain from thanking you though I prefer him to Kest. That man oozed hostility.”

  “A strange death,” Vianne murmured. “I’ve wondered many times if Minessa could have helped them. Her mercy skills are like none I’ve ever witnessed. We’ve missed her in Ava-Grea, as an instructor, doyen, and healer. Dalcoran especially.”

  Catling nibbled a sweet. Dalcoran chatted with Kadan near the queen’s dais, erect despite his crippling pain. A proud man and fierce defender of the guild, he’d seen nothing but peril in a child of the warrens, a girl with a cursed eye. Now, he no longer presented a threat, a development enabling, not forgiveness, but a letting go of care. She didn’t care about him one way or another. After hours on his feet, she assumed his bones ached and muscles contracted. Minessa’s hand rested on his arm, no doubt easing his discomfort.

  Catling brushed crumbs from her jacket. “If we were kinder to the planet’s natives, we might have more bonding between us, more healers like Minessa, and less suffering. The Cull Tarr arrogance pricks our self-esteem, and yet we are no different. We all suffer our false superiority.”

  “A conversation we’ve undertaken before.” Vianne sighed and set her empty cup on a table. “Any changes with your eye?”

  “You used to be so subtle in your inquiries, Vianne. What happened?”

  “Was I?” Vianne chuckled. “Or did you mature and become cynical.”

  “Less naive.” Catling looked up at the snaking tubes of luminescence on the gray Founder-made ceiling and smiled. “My eye is pretty now. My skills are unchanged.” She showered Vianne with a light sprinkling of pleasure and relief, subtly hooking the genuine feelings as Vianne had taught her. She wouldn’t have dared such an act a few years ago for fear that discovery would end her life. Now she violated her oaths without a second thought, over and over again. She found it easy to continue once she’d started. And if the outcome caused no harm, was it wrong?

  ***

  The next day, Lelaine tapped a finger to her jaw, musing over her guests, a combination of Cull Tarr, influencer doyen, and royal councilors that promised an interesting afternoon. She regretted Gannon’s absence, as his knowledge of the Cull Tarr, their idiosyncrasies and contradictions, was second to none. She missed him, loved him, fumed at him for his defiance.

  Love left her weak. When her father still had his wits, he’d never tolerated meddling, bold insolence, or idealism. He had stressed alliances, obedience, a stalwart adherence to the foundations upon which Ellegeance thrived for three hundred years: tiers, hierarchies, guilds, each person accepting his or her place, dominance. Her romantic dreams of bonding with a mate from the warrens would have made his head implode.

  Lightning flashed outside the window. Morose clouds that earlier roiled over the morning sea blew squalls of sheeting rain in with the wind. The delta rolled on rhythmic swells, and black gulls cried. Inside, additional lanterns brimmed with luminescence and hung from filigreed hooks melted into the walls, a recent addition, complements of Kadan-Mur.

  Niceties passed between attendees. The table displayed a repast that accounted for Ellegean and Cull Tarr tastes: soft cheeses and honeyed meats, pickled sea urchins, boiled fruit, and a spicy fish stew. The Shipmaster had brought his own chef and assistants to oversee the meals and assist with preparations according to his standards of purity. The fuss annoyed her, but he refrained from any show of superiority when it came to cuisine; he was merely Cull Tarr, and that’s how they dined.

  “Is everything to your liking, Tull Airon?”

  He smiled in return, his gray eyes dilated in the stormy light. “Exceptional, Lelaine-Elan. Your hospitality is worthy of a king, no?”

  “I trust my hospitality is worthy of any guest.” She sipped her greenleaf, wishing it were wine. The Shiplord didn’t appear to drink at all, a choice leaving her compromised if she did, thirsty if she didn’t.

  Tull Airon sat at the table’s other end, impeccably dressed in black with scarlet enamel scales on the wide epaulets of his jacket. A sheath of black leather bound his dark braid, and once again, he wore no jewelry. Ambassador Linc and three shipmasters including the infamous Emer Tilkon were interspersed between Lelaine’s councilors and the two doyen. Vianne and Dalcoran had offered their gu
idance in the past, and Lelaine saw no reason to deny them now. In fact, she found their company comforting in light of the Shiplord’s presence and overabundance of Cull Tall.

  The Cull Tarr were not conversationalists. Tilkon spent her time inspecting her food and glaring at anyone who ventured a question. The ambassador was the only one of Tull Airon’s retinue participating in any faltering dialogue. Dalcoran chatted with the Shiplord, and Vianne observed the proceedings like a falcon deciding on her prey.

  Councilor Oaron carried the conversation at the moment by focusing on culinary choices and complimenting the spices that saved the boiled Cull Tarr fare. Laris commented on the weather, and Edark sat in stoic silence, his concerns regarding an alliance with the Cull Tarr scrawled across on his gaunt face.

  “I particularly like the pickling spices.” Oaron placed a wedge of pickled fruit in his mouth and swallowed.

  Laughter bubbled in Lelaine’s chest, and she stifled it with a smile. A blue qindo tasted sweet, and the thought of pickling it made her mouth pucker. Tilkon looked at her with bored eyes.

  “It’s an acquired taste,” Linc said. “We are more apt to boil and mash our fruit with an addition of spices, crushed nuts, and fine grains.”

  “Such a shame that you miss the flavor of them freshly picked,” Laris joined in.

  “The slaves eat them raw,” Tilkon said.

  “Ah, well then, good for the slaves,” Edark said, his droll comment raising Vianne’s eyebrows.

  “Before we begin our discussion, I would pose a question.” Lelaine tilted her head to the Shiplord and gestured to Catling to maintain her shield. More than one influencer stood in the periphery with the scribes, two of them in the Cull Tarr’s employ. “I can’t imagine why you retain influencers after sharing your disdain for them.”

  Tull Airon wrinkled his brow. “What man would enter a negotiation without exploiting his opponent’s weaknesses?”

  “Weaknesses?” Vianne asked.

  “Susceptibility to influence is surely seen as a frailty, no?” The man cocked an eyebrow. “Your power gives you control, but it is a two-faced blade.”

  “If not controlled by our oaths,” Dalcoran agreed.

  “Yet,” Tull Airon raised a finger for attention. “Yet, you have no defense against it, do you? What would stop an influencer from exercising his power to his benefit?”

  “Honor, perhaps.” Lelaine flattened her hand on the table, an indication to shield everyone in the room.

  A hand to his heart, the Shiplord laughed. “Harsh words, Lelaine-Elan. We merely benefit from the same tools used by your tier wards and guilds. To ignore such power would be foolish. You retain influencers here as well, no?” He indicated the doyen with an open palm, glanced at Catling, and flicked a wrist at Fontine who stood at the wall.

  “A precaution,” Lelaine said. “I have no interest in terms negotiated under influence.”

  “But you must admit, your pretty influencer has tried, has she not?”

  “Of course, but merely out of curiosity,” Lelaine said.

  “And was your curiosity quenched?”

  “Catling confirmed you were unswayed.”

  He leaned back in his seat, and the intensity in his gray eyes belied his smile. “It seems you are equally unswayed. It’s a riddle to which I will find the answer.”

  Lelaine held his gaze, but the observation raised the hair on her arms. “I understand you seek increased trade opportunities in Ellegeance. I thought access to Ava-Grea would be sufficient.”

  “A generous trade, but who does not wish to extend his reach?” He threaded his fingers together on the table.

  Oaron swallowed another wedge of qindo and cleared his throat. “The rivers south are too shallow and narrow for your ships.”

  “A good thing we are skilled shipbuilders,” Tilkon said.

  “And what do you offer in return?” Lelaine ignored the woman, addressing her question to the Shiplord. “We invite you into our cities, open our markets, buy your goods, but you purchase little beyond souls.”

  “And are souls not valuable, Lelaine-Elan?”

  “Indeed they are.” She beckoned to a servant. “Bring a bottle of Cull Tarr wine.” The servant hurried off, and Lelaine returned her attention to the Shiplord. “But Cull Tarr wine, Cull Tarr oils, Cull Tarr ships, Cull Tarr textiles, all of it comes into our markets, and little goes out. So, I ask again, what do you offer in return?”

  “Unity,” he replied. “We will build settlements between your tiers in the open land, bring prosperity to your cities, law to your realm.”

  “We live by a code of laws.” Edark frowned.

  Tull Airon balked, his eyebrows pinched. “Forgive me, but my people say with some exception that your laws are inconsistent and poorly enforced, subject to the will of the high wards, the guilds, and influencers, no? My regrets for my honesty, but Your Grace, your provinces are ruled by lawbreakers.”

  Lelaine raised her chin and steered her attention to the shipmaster. “Forgive me my cynicism, but I’ve heard and personally experienced the arbitrary nature of your laws.”

  “My ship sails according to the Protocols,” Tilkon said, smirking at Lelaine with half-shuttered eyes. “You misinterpreted my intentions.”

  “You intended to give me as a gift to your master.”

  Tilkon leaned forward. “The Wandering Swan pulled you from the sea and intended to deliver you to the Shiplord for his decision. Protocols, law. We obey.”

  “You changed your mind fast enough when I offered gold.”

  “We voted. I lost. The law stood.”

  “Ah!” The Shiplord laughed. “Women should not fight about such matters, Lelaine-Elan. We offer commerce, expansion of Ellegeance’s territory along the coast, a navy, new cities on your rivers, roads into the interior, farms and crops, faith and law, prosperity.” He gazed at her with smoldering eyes, a sultry smile curving one corner of his lips. “And a king to rule at your side.”

  Lelaine rested a finger on her cheek, the last comment not unexpected but disconcerting in its abruptness. Some years had passed since anyone bandied about a royal bond as if she were a prize cow. A strategic bond made the best sense for Ellegeance, but her heart mattered, a fact the Shiplord overlooked. Her councilors and the doyen shifted uneasily. Vianne huffed.

  Ambassador Linc stood and presented Lelaine with a contract. “Our Protocols require your consent. The Shiplord agrees that you will remain queen, ruler, and emissary to the tier cities. He will preside over all other expansion and aspects of governing including commerce, law, and faith. The Cull Tarr will join Ellegeance as if we never left.”

  “I see.” Lelaine smiled. “A contractual bond. I must admit, it’s the first offer of its kind. You propose that I abdicate half my power and my throne to a man I’ve scarcely met? It has the ring of an ultimatum by a usurper. Why would I choose thus when I have a whole queendom to rule?”

  Tull Airon rested his elbows on the table. “You are too lovely for such pressures, Lelaine-Elan. Your realm challenges your power at every turn. You should sail the seas, enjoy your youth, bear twelve children, and command twenty slaves. Enjoy the beauty and fertility of the sea. A queen deserves a powerful king, no?”

  Lelaine was inclined to echo his ‘no’ in reply. But she wished to discuss the Cull Tarr visit, opportunities, and complications with her councilors and advisors before dismissing him completely. That’s what a ruler should do, what her father would have done. This was a negotiation after all, not an ultimatum. The Cull Tarr were everywhere, slowly invading her realm. She would respond with caution.

  “I am flattered, Shiplord Tull Airon, by your romantic words, your vision and love for Ellegeance, and I shall take your proposal under advisement.” She sipped her wine, relishing the smooth sensation as it slid down her throat. “I believe we’ve exhausted our discussions for the day. I have much to consider. You are free to enjoy the city as my guests, and we shall surely visit again before you depart.” S
he dipped her head and drank her Cull Tarr wine. He stared at her, expressionless but for the serene patience in his eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Catling simmered at the foot of Lelaine’s bed, her hands jabbed into her hips. “Your guests wondered at your absence at dinner.”

  The queen rolled over, tangled in her coverlet with an arm across her eyes. Her ladies fussed about her room creating enough noise to reverberate down the pylons. She lifted an arm and peeked at Catling’s frown. “You’re becoming dour, Catling.”

  “You slept the afternoon away. The tier wards felt slighted, and the Shiplord expressed concern for your delicate constitution.”

  “I thought I’d made myself clear to His Majesty Tull Airon; I need time to think.”

  “He assumed the role of host, Lelaine.”

  “I wasn’t well.”

  “I’ll refrain from commenting.” Catling picked up an empty wine bottle and handed it to a servant. She retreated to a polished table where she’d set a tray of food. “Your food is cold.”

  Lelaine groaned and struggled out of bed, her clothes rumpled and ringlets in disarray. Her ladies began to trouble over her, and she batted them away before flopping into a chair. “My head is stuffed with custard. My tongue has dried out, and the light is stabbing needles into my eyes.”

  “If the light were any dimmer, you wouldn’t be able to find your fork.” Catling handed the utensil to the queen.

  “I drank too much.” Lelaine stared at her food and sniffled.

  Catling dismissed the women who stood in silence waiting for instructions. She slid into the seat across from the queen, dosing her with a touch of calm and extending her open palm. “May I help?”

  Lelaine’s hand rested in hers, and Catling employed her mercy’s skills to constrict blood vessels, cleanse the woman’s veins and organs, and clear away the cobwebs clogging her brain. Lelaine sighed. “Do you remember the old confidence I held when I accepted the crown?” Catling nodded and Lelaine looked up. “Was I so naive? Where did it go? What if Airon is right and I can’t hold Ellegeance together? I’m challenged at every turn.”