Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3) Read online

  “You’re simply tired. Eat something, and you’ll feel much mended in the morning.” Catling brushed her with a drop of joy and pleasure, enough to soothe her distress and bolster her confidence. She poured a cup of greenleaf for each of them.

  “What do you think of him?” Lelaine nibbled on a buttered nut-roll.

  “The Shiplord?” Catling twisted her lips and shrugged. “Charming in some ways, convinced of his power, domineering and righteous.”

  “He envisions an alluring future for Ellegeance, a future that’s beyond my power.”

  “Not beyond your imagination.” Catling sipped her tea. “Neither of you can implement such a dream overnight. It may take a lifetime or two or three, the work of your heirs.”

  “That makes me tired.” Lelaine picked up a peeled lissom, broke it in two, and handed half to Catling. “I should consider a bond.”

  “With the Shiplord?” Catling couldn’t prevent a scowl from crossing her face. “None of your councilors advise it, Lelaine.”

  The queen looked up at her and smiled. “Not with him, I assure you. I bear no interest in becoming a slave to a Cull Tarr king. Elan-Sia would have to be in flames before I considered such a dire future. Trust that any statement sounding the least bit amenable to a bond is pure politics.”

  “Gannon?” Catling asked, her eyes wide, a quiver of delight tickling her chest.

  “Why not?”

  ***

  Catling yawned, the evening uneventful, a positive outcome, she supposed. She left Lelaine with a contented smile and caught up with Nessa and Kadan who lingered on the twentieth tier until her duties ended. They chatted about Nessa’s pregnancy and her rose garden, Kadan’s power and prospects and the transformations occurring in the Mur-Vallis warrens. Their faith in the future was endearing, their love for each other genuine and free of influence. They gave Catling hope.

  “We heard Whitt traveled through Mur-Vallis after his escape,” Kadan said, keeping his voice down. “I wish he’d sought us out. We support his efforts regarding the Farlanders. My oath to the realm aligns with his, and above all, we consider him a friend.”

  “I doubt I’ll encounter him in Elan-Sia,” Catling chuckled, “but I’m grateful.”

  “It’s been a year, Catling.” Nessa took her hands. “Are you caring for yourself? Are you healing?”

  Nessa referred to Rose, a wound that didn’t fester but also failed to scar. “I manage. There are hours that pass when I don’t ruminate about her.”

  “My regrets,” Kadan said, an echo of his old guilt.

  “There’s nothing to apologize for.” Catling hugged him. “You did nothing wrong. Life is strange, isn’t it?” She couldn’t speak the words aloud, but as long as Rose remained safe in Whitt’s care, Catling would collect and savor the scattered shards of contentment. That was all her heart needed to know.

  The rain relented, and woolen clouds pillowed the ebony sky, the moons and stars secreted from view. Luminescent lanterns glowed against an endless blanket of darkness. Catling bid her friends a good night and descended the spiral staircase to the nineteenth tier. Two guards traipsed on her heels; Lelaine’s orders while the Cull Tarr crowded the city.

  Servants toiled, hauling away trays and linens, vases of flowers, and empty bottles. Small groups of guests lingered in the garden, enjoying a last evening of company before departing for their home cities. Before she turned the corner to hike down another flight to her quarters, a man appeared at her elbow.

  She stepped back. “Ambassador.”

  Falco Linc offered a sharp bow and pleasant smile, a warm spark to his eyes. “Forgive me for startling you. I’m off to my chambers as well. My regrets that you missed most of the evening. Is the queen ill?”

  “Fatigued from the festivities. And your evening?”

  He chuckled. “My duty is to serve, Catling. Much like you, I imagine, my own enjoyment comes secondary.”

  “Probably so.” She started down the steps, rain sputtering on her head. “My apologies for hurrying off, Ambassador, but it’s late, and the rain isn’t done with us.”

  “May I accompany you?”

  “If you will.”

  “I’m relieved to have stumbled on this moment. I had hoped to lend you a word of guidance before the night ended.”

  She paused, noting his ungloved hands, the smooth skin of his face. The guards stopped a few steps above her, observing the exchange. If Linc touched her, she’d kill him. “A warning?”

  His chin drew back, amusement and concern flickering across his face. “Guidance.” He met her eyes. “I shall be direct, and I mean my counsel only as a gesture of good will between us. Nothing more.”

  “Speak your mind.”

  “It is unwise, Catling, to speak disparagingly of the Shiplord or the Protocols. The Cull Tarr are pious, and your words may easily be misinterpreted as blasphemous.”

  She blinked at him without any idea what he referred to. “The queen has always been direct in her opinions.”

  “The queen, despite the challenges she presents, is the ruler of Ellegeance. The Shiplord forgives her transgressions.” He lowered his voice. “It is your statements I refer to.”

  “Mine?” She attempted to recall the details of the previous evening’s conversation. “He asked for my opinion. We discussed matters of law, and I shared that, to my knowledge, Cull Tarr law is inconsistent, wielded based on the whims of individuals. He pointed out that the same might be said for Ellegean law, to which I agreed. I challenged neither his right to rule nor his Book.”

  Linc leaned closer, the man a head taller than she. He smelled of herbed oil, and his breath was warm. “The Shiplord is the emissary of the Founders, and the Protocols is our holy book. I wish merely that you beware.”

  “I appreciate the warning, Falco Linc.” She stepped back. “If you’ll forgive me—”

  The guards behind her shouted and flew forward down the staircase. One smashed into her as she cringed. Her footing lost, she tumbled down the stairs with the man, striking her elbow and knee. She scraped her forehead on the lip of a tread and slid the last few steps on her hip.

  The guard sprawled across her legs, motionless. The second guard, a more muscular man, had lunged for the staircase rail and caught it. His two assailants, their faces hidden in black cowls, stabbed him and kicked his bleeding body down the steps.

  Catling screamed for Linc and wriggled from beneath the dead guard. A crimson trail splattered the path of their descent, and blood dribbled into her eye. Her arm throbbed, and she’d twisted her knee. Linc scrambled down the staircase ahead of her attackers, grabbed her arm, and hauled her up. “Run, Catling.”

  He pulled her in a limping flight toward the garden. She shouted for help, each step shooting pain through her leg. A hand swiped her head, closed on her hair, and yanked her off her feet. The fall to her back knocked the breath from her lungs. She shot crippling pain and fear into the air, and though she heard the howling horror of a response, it didn’t come from the man dragging her to the tier’s lip by her jacket. If anything, her power delayed her own rescue. And where was Linc?

  She severed her influence, screamed and writhed, hands grabbing at the man’s sleeve, seeking a touch of skin and fully intending to kill him. He flung her to the barrier and tried to kick her under the lowest bar. She hung onto his sleeve with one hand and clutched the wet railing with the other, boots striking at his legs.

  Out of sheer desperation, she closed her good eye, and the blaze of her assailant’s emotions burst upon her—hatred, anger, and enjoyment. Colors radiated from his body and leapt toward her like tongues of fire. One simple intention would slay him, but the guards sprinting to her aid would also die. Her leg slipped off the edge, the other foot hooked on a post. The man wrenched back his arm, and his sleeve tore, exposing his flesh. Snarling a curse, he straightened and kicked.

  The other attacker darted toward her, Linc close on his heels. The ambassador caught the man before he slammed h
er from the tier. Linc whipped him aside, pounded him into the rail, and shoved him over. The man’s terrified eyes met hers before he fell to the tier below.

  Guards bounded from the staircase and stumbled as influence wiped their feet from under them. The same agony blazed through her. She screamed, her skin on fire, and then shielded herself as Linc lunged for the man attempting to kick her from the edge. Her assailant backed off, climbed the rail, and jumped. Instantly, the influence vanished. Linc gripped her arm and dragged her from the edge. She struggled to her feet, every inch of her body trembling as she held onto him for support. “Are they dead?”

  Linc held her up as she limped to the rail and peered down. One man lay on the tier below, bleeding from a slit throat. The other had fled, nowhere in sight.

  A panting guard counted off a handful of men. “See what you can find.” He turned to Catling. “Did you recognize them?”

  She shook her head. “They were immune to influence.”

  “Cull Tarr.” Linc frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  She glanced at him. “Could one of them be an influencer?”

  “No. The Cull Tarr cannot influence, and despite our wishes otherwise, our influencers’ first vows are to your doyen. Catling, your guild has a traitor.”

  “I know.” She stared at the dead man bleeding out on the tier below. “I’d only hoped it wasn’t so.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Snow blew in waist high drifts against the walls. His second Winterchill in Tor, Gannon trudged the packed path that once was a road, his head down and teeth chattering. The wind scoured the land from the east, whipping daggers of ice into the frigid air. He’d spent too long in the north, and his blood had thinned to water. Most of Winterchill had been too cold to snow; otherwise, Tor would have been buried alive and frozen solid. The white fluff that fell never melted and squeaked beneath his boots.

  He glanced up to gauge the distance to the inner city gate. The sky deepened to a rich cobalt blue except where the snow blasted off the Fangwold peaks in a permanent sparkling cloud. He eyed the pacing bear in its metal cage; a disturbing sight no matter the high ward’s message.

  At least the inner city walls provided modest protection from the gusts and blowing snow. He shoved his hands into his armpits beneath his cloak, the place they’d spent most of his waking hours. For an entire winter, he’d attempted to arrange an audience with High Ward Antoris and only accomplished it when he threatened to leave for the north with word of Tor’s contemptuous defiance. Two subsequent conferences, an average of one per season, had gotten him nowhere. If not for Lelaine’s faith in him, Tiler’s unexpected arrival, and the impossibility of travel over the pass, he was ready to beat a trail out of there, blizzard or no.

  The guards groped him for weapons outside the high ward’s council chambers and forced him to wait in the cold corridor. He paced, ruminating about Lelaine and pining for the north’s mild weather. He’d reached his decision to help free Whitt with the confidence of a man in love or a complete fool. More likely, both. In hindsight, it almost cost him his queen and, potentially, his life. What saved him—a thought occurring to him one frosty night while lying awake in bed—was that she loved him.

  “This way.” A guard swung open the door, and a pleasant wave of heat embraced him like a doting mother. The high ward’s council chamber glowed with firelight from a tall hearth. It danced across a menagerie of mounted animal heads that leered at him from high upon the walls. A long polished table, its surface hewn from a single tree, dominated the room’s center with eight cushioned chairs. With the exception of the stuffed corpses, all else, the tapestries, vases, crystal, and ornately framed paintings squealed of beauty and wealth.

  The high ward sat at the table’s head and didn’t bother to look up.

  Gannon approached and bowed. “My respects, High Ward Antoris-Tor, Ardal-Mur, Olivan-Bes, Justice Narl-Dar and Captain Pike-um…”

  “Tor.” If a man could swagger while seated, the captain was a professional. He leaned back in his chair and tugged at his sleeves.

  “My regrets, Captain Pike-Tor.” Sometimes the surnames made Gannon’s head spin, and he wished they hadn’t insisted on the formality. Freeing Whitt hadn’t earned him any friends among Tor’s elite. Only Olivan had escaped the melee and only because he wasn’t in Guardian at the time.

  The three advisors filled the chairs on the side of the table closest to the fire and responded with mere dips of their chins. The high ward’s full beard rested on the mirrored surface as he peered at the papers before him and scrawled with spidery fingers. Suddenly, Gannon had a strong urge to drop the whole pointless matter, march to the nearest tavern, and drink.

  “How might we assist the queen’s emissary?” Olivan asked, his cap of blond hair looking especially lank, his goatee especially pointy.

  “Before we begin, High Ward Antoris-Tor, I might remind you of our agreement regarding influence.”

  The high ward glanced up, nodded to the influencers, and returned to his papers.

  “My thanks.” Gannon faced the justice. “The same subject as my last visit—a renegotiation of our treaty with the Farlanders at the queen’s behest.”

  “How disconcerting.” Ardal raised his dark eyebrows and the fractal woads near his scalp wrinkled. “We offered our terms at your last visit.”

  “Ah, I see.” Gannon shook his head. “I understood those to be fantasies, idle daydreams disconnected from any sense of fairness or deference for territorial integrity. I assumed you jested.” He took a seat without an invitation.

  The high ward leaned back and frowned. Justice Narl huffed and pursed his thick lips. “We were quite serious and certain the queen would agree. I take it you neglected to present our offer.”

  “Forgive me,” Gannon said, sitting forward in his chair, “but a negotiation is more complicated than a simple statement of your wishes. The goal is lasting peace, and that will require compromise.”

  “We don’t compromise with savages.” Narl puffed up his chest.

  “You do when the queen commands it,” Gannon replied.

  Narl’s chin retracted into his neck. “The Founders intended us to rule this planet.”

  The Founders gave Gannon a headache. “I’m a little weary of hearing about all the things the Founders intend us to do and all the powers they grant us. They dropped us on this planet and expected us to figure it out and fend for ourselves.”

  “The Protocols are quite explicit,” Olivan said.

  “On some topics, not on others,” Gannon replied. “I studied them when I lived with the Cull Tarr.” That shut the influencer up. Gannon faced Ardal-Mur who seemed to speak for the high ward more often than the others. “Tor cannot simply redraw borders or issue decrees at the expense of its neighbors. You’ve usurped forty percent of the land designated for Farlander use, land never granted to Ellegeance under any agreement.”

  “This is last season’s history.” Ardal sighed as if bored by the rehashing of settled arguments.

  “All the more pertinent,” Gannon replied. “The Farlanders wish peace, and your guards send every one of them the message that negotiation is for weaklings and fools.”

  “The Farlanders weren’t using the land,” Narl said.

  “They’d planted orchards.” Gannon stared at the fat man as if he’d grown horns. “Your actions constitute theft!” Every face at the table scowled, including his.

  Pike flicked his wrist at the air as if the argument perched on his shoulder. “I give them ample opportunity to provide proof of ownership.”

  “You know their beliefs regarding stewardship of the land,” Gannon said. “And if you need proof, our treaty defines the borders.”

  “We require the territory to accommodate our growing population,” Olivan said. “The final agreement will place the orchard within Ellegean boundaries. Since it will be ours eventually, it doesn’t actually qualify as theft.”

  Gannon paused to rub his forehead and pre
vent his brain from leaking out of his skull.

  “We require the new territory,” Ardal pointed out, “for our security. It connects our timber and farming outposts to the city. Those were established before the South Wars, which were started by the Farlanders. We are willing to negotiate peace, Gannon. The additional land will provide us with greater leverage. If we cease the confiscation prematurely, it may be taken by the clans as the establishment of a boundary.”

  Gannon blew out a breath. “You cannot take land simply because you possess the power. As soon as the gap is passable, I’ll return to the queen with my report, and I doubt she’ll be pleased.”

  The dark-haired influencer cocked his head. “Nothing has changed since our discussions in Guardian, Gannon. Her Grace supported the Ellegean position then; she’ll support it now. I understood that she ordered you here to scribe a new treaty. We have explained our demands as clearly as we are able. It is up to you to convince the Farlanders of our wisdom.”

  “That is a task I—”

  “You are dismissed.” The high ward’s eyes cut, the tone of his voice severing all further conversation. “Give my regards to the queen.”

  Gannon rose, bowed, and walked out a failure, and there wasn’t a thing he could do to change it. He jerked his hood over his head, hunched his shoulders up around his ears, and pulled his cloak tight. The high ward ground Gannon’s fists down to nubs, and part of him wanted to quit the brawl and go home. Elan-Sia and Lelaine defined his world, and that realization brought a laugh. He hadn’t seen her in more than a year, and that was a year too long.

  Outside the gate, the wind blasted him back a step. Tiler was warming his gut and butt at the Hangman’s Hound with a contingent of Guardians who proved friendly to his cause, though unwilling to defy the law. That hadn’t worked out too well for Whitt.

  Tor looked like a lost cause until Guardian stood up and pushed back. Jagur couldn’t do it unless Lelaine issued the order, and she avoided yanking southern tails unless the high ward overstepped. Gannon was supposed to make all Lelaine’s troubles vanish, a task exiling him to the Founders’ frozen hell. Tor intended to beat down the Farlanders until they gave up, and he was helpless to stop it.